Is this what maturity does? Does becoming a grown-up really mean you have to lose all your creativity, intelligence and wit, becoming a sniveling sycophant? Because that's the message you get from Jersey Girl, writer-director Kevin Smith's supposedly "mature" film, in which he leaves behind the juvenile humor and snarky attitude of his previous work and embraces pure, lame Hollywood schlock.
In perhaps the best argument I've ever seen against having children, Smith was inspired by the birth of his own daughter to craft the story of Manhattan music publicist Ollie Trinke (Ben Affleck), a career-obsessed workaholic who is thrown for a loop when he meets book editor Gertrude (Jennifer Lopez), gets married and prepares to have a daughter. That's nothing, however, compared to what he has to deal with when his wife dies in childbirth and leaves him alone to raise little Gert Jr.
Fast-forward seven years and Ollie is living in New Jersey with school-age Gert (Raquel Castro) and his crotchety yet lovable pop (George Carlin), working for the city after being canned from his publicity gig for unfortunate comments about the Fresh Prince (you know, Will Smith). He has learned to be a loving father to his precocious daughter, and has almost healed enough to start a romance with cute grad student and video-store clerk Maya (Liv Tyler).
Despite all the clichés and stock characters, this could have been a decent movie in the hands of, oh, I don't know, let's say a filmmaker with an ear for dialogue and a talent for fleshing out seemingly flat characters. Perhaps Kevin Smith? Too bad someone has kidnapped Smith and replaced him with Generic Hollywood Director No. 453, because Jersey Girl is as bland, safe, lifeless and sappy as anything produced by a committee of 14 producers and writers in the last few years. If you had shown this film to Smith in 1994 and told him this is what he'd be doing in 10 years, he'd have shot himself.
The dialogue is flat and humorless, the plot recycled and predictable, the acting canned, and the sentiment half-assed. I couldn't have liked this movie any less if Affleck had stepped off the screen and punched me in the face. Smith should be ashamed, not only for producing faceless corporate twaddle, but also for pawning it off as mature and complex, as if the film couldn't have been written by 7-year-old Gert herself. For the sake of your sanity, rent Clerks, rent Chasing Amy—hell, even rent any other Ben Affleck movie. Just stay away from this soul-sucker of a film.