World’s Greatest Dad, Bumbling Towards Profundity

by Marc Calderaro 

Writer/Director Bobcat Goldthwait is at it again.  "Shakes the Clown" was ridiculous, but it was nothing compared to "Sleeping Dogs Lie".  The story of an alcoholic clown is silly, sure, but compared to a Rom-Com about urges of bestiality?  Please.  And as crazy as that film was, I think he’s successfully topped himself.  Goldthwait’s latest film, "World’s Greatest Dad" is a dark, biting film about coping with your own life.  And there’s nothing scarier than that. 

Robin Williams plays Lance Clayton, a divorced, aging high-school teacher.  His love life is humdrum, his novels are always rejected, and his son, Kyle (played amazingly by grown-up Spy Kid, Daryl Sabara), is an absolute fucking jerk-off.  One of my biggest fears in life is to have an asshole for a son, and Sabara’s disgusting performance had me squirming in my seat, gagging, unable to induce vomiting.  Everything about Kyle is oily – from his hatred of “fags”, to his masturbation obsession, right down to his improperly washed, chubby face.  He’s gross, and for a long time I wanted to turn the film off. Not just because Kyle is the biggest douchebag I’ve ever seen, but also because the tedium of setting up Lance’s sad life is rather contrived.  The characters are barely believable, the lyrics to the soundtrack often describe what was happening on-screen, and I just wasn’t sure where the film was going. 

Then Kyle kills himself masturbating.  And the film takes a very sharp turn. 

When Lance discovers the grisly scene, he cleans up the body and makes it look like a suicide, note and all.  This is all well and good, until the false note is published in the school paper, and Kyle, previously derided for being the self-absorbed jackass he was, is now revered as a misunderstood genius. Lance, in the meantime, goes from teaching the least popular elective, to the most populated.  And his girlfriend, who was much more interested in other men, now begins to give him the attention he’s been craving. 

This is when the film starts gaining momentum.  It asks us two important questions: Why do we revere the dead, especially if they died tragically?  And why is fiction, when portrayed as fact, nothing more than a lie?  As the fabrication of Kyle’s personality spins out of control, memorials are held and everyone wants more.  So when Lance gives over “Kyle’s” journal, full of adolescent angst, and hilariously titled, "You Don’t Know Me", it becomes a sensation.  Soon we are sent down the rabbit hole of understandable, but ultimately selfish, deceit. 

The story is strikingly similar to the few-year-old headline about author James Fray.  I wouldn’t be surprised if Goldthwait’s inspiration for the screenplay came from that exact story.  Fray’s memoir, "A Million Little Pieces", was a sensation, and Fray was doing book tours and talk shows all over the nation; his book was revered as an inspirational masterpiece.  Until it was revealed as a fake.  Then Fray became the subject of scorn from just about everyone in the media, and famously, Oprah.  She felt deceived and wanted him to apologize.  This was obviously ridiculous, as was everyone else’s reactions, because the story still operates on the same inspirational level, whether it’s true or false.  And what the hell is “fiction” anyway if not an author deceiving his audience?  Just about every story we’ve heard about our past is falsehood anyway.  It’s not like George Washington actually cut down any cherry tree.  So who cares?  And as Todd Solondz’s "Storytelling" expounds, “Once you begin writing, it all becomes fiction.”  But it didn’t matter, we felt duped, and we wanted blood. 

This questionable morality when reality and fiction blur is what concerns Goldthwait.  As Lance’s life becomes a whirlwind media darling, garnering attention from anyone and everyone (including a totally fictitious black, female, daytime talk show host…hmmm) – and Kyle’s life becomes an unbelievable myth of pure saccharine goop, we, the audience, are left to wonder.  What’s the difference?  Why does the story have to be true if it brings so many people joy and happiness and insight?  Maybe it’s actually better that "You Don’t Know Me" didn’t happen.  As both Stephen Holden and Roger Ebert point out, Kyle’s death brings out the best in the survivors.  Meanwhile, the film suggests that Lance’s production is accepted as fact, and Lance shows no sign of regret.  Is the world better off knowing or not knowing?  Goldthwait smartly answers by not answering.  Though Robin Williams has periodically narrated the film up to this point, there’s no internal monologue as to Lance’s feelings and ideas now.  Instead, we’re left in a state of flux – paralyzed – watching lie after lie pile up, Goldthwait deftly revealing no bias either way. 

Not until deep in the third act do we discover how the director feels.  And in those few moments, Bobcat shows his brilliance.  When Lance is to accept an award and give a speech on behalf of his dead, shithead son, we have no idea what he’s going to say.  And believe you me, what he says, is perfect. 

I don’t know just how much of a positive spin the film means to place on the canonizing of a loathsome teenager’s death.  But I was left feeling great about the lie the world had created.  It was absolutely mesmerizing in its honesty.  This self-deception is exactly how people truly react, for better or for worse; just ask Freud.  I, for one, respected just how easily we swallow our own stupid bullshit when we’re reminded of our own mortality. 

Sure the film borrows its theme and part of its tone from "Heathers", but "World’s Greatest Dad" is distinct.  "Heathers" merely mocks our reverence toward the dead, where this film questions it.  The 1988 film is about teenager vs. teenager, not father vs. son – quite a different dynamic.  And even though "World’s Greatest Dad" is full of clichéd characters, ideas, and motives, tripping so much I’m surprised it doesn’t tumble down the staircase; the film’s final half-hour it almost magical.  The little-satire-that-could sheds all its baggage (not unlike Robin Williams’ nude scene) and ends on a transcendent plateau by itself.  We’re left to wonder just what it means to be fiction anyway, and why we get so pissed about what is or what isn’t.  Because we all know that apocryphal stories are always the best ones.  George Washington would certainly attest to that.