Losing Streak

Diminished Capacity Directed by Terry Kinney at IFC Center

Nobody can deny the hefty problems currently plaguing the independent film community. Industry vet Mark Gill’s dark forecast, delivered in a Los Angeles speech last week appropriately titled, “Yes, the Sky Really is Falling,” made sure of that. Gill gave a complete rundown of the issues at hand, pointing to a crowded marketplace where quality has become a minority term. In that context, it’s not hard to see the trees in the forest, and Diminished Capacity provides the latest dispiriting example.

What we have here is an unremarkable little movie getting a decent release in a slot that might be better served by a more accomplished low-budget work—say, Full Grown Men, David Munro’s long-delayed character study, which actually does deserve your attention and currently struggles for it in a much smaller release across town at Cinema Village. In terms of star power—that ever-frustrating barometer of bankability—Diminished Capacity has Matthew Broderick, Alan Alda and Virginia Madsen, enough to beat out Full Grown Men’s talented trio of Judah Friedlander, Amy Sedaris and Alan Cumming. (The real star role, however, belongs to Matt McGrath, an admittedly lesser-known face.) What’s in a name? Sadly, a lot. The title of Diminished Capacity doubles as a report on the state of business.

So does the plot. Broderick plays a crestfallen Chicago newspaper editor suffering from post-concussion syndrome after enduring a nasty blow to his head in ridiculous circumstances we’re barely given the chance to understand. In need of escape, seeking psychological release, or “searching for answers,” as the press notes put it, he heads to his old rural stomping grounds. There, he copes with a senile uncle (Alda)—his surrogate father—whose delusional existence creates a new set of problems. A boring story (taken from the novel by Sherwood Kiraly) about the uncle getting tricked into selling a pricey piece of baseball merchandise develops in the third act, but let’s just stick with the set-up, because these two out-of-whack personalities accidentally offer a revealing symbolism (one that the filmmakers couldn’t possibly have intended).

Unsure of where he belongs, Broderick’s character generates a credible analogy to the troubled condition of independent film. He’s good-natured, mostly likable and yet lacks self-confidence—until a former flame (Madsen) believes in him again, and then he’s all smiles. To wit: Unable to figure out the changing models of distribution and constantly evolving audience standards, the indie world often gets back in bed with the same old gal. In the case of Diminished Capacity, that ends up as an acceptable strategy, but we don’t know what happens after the credits roll.

Alda, meanwhile, gives what could qualify as his most miscalculated performance ever, portraying a delirious old coot convinced that fish compose poetry on the dock by his home. He reads their so-called verses to his nephew with wide-eyed awe, firmly convinced that the nonsense pouring out of his head will similarly resonate with those around him. Welcome to the blockbuster-addicted realm of vapidity known as Hollywood.

None of this, mind you, makes Diminished Capacity worth anyone’s time. While not an incessantly awful movie, it fails to develop a single moment of isolated drama. Occasionally, the script veers into the uninspired mode of an over-the-top comedy, toying with potentially hilarious collector stereotypes at a baseball convention, where one maddened hobbyist can’t get over his vain hope that the Chicago Cubs can break their losing streak. They don’t, the film doesn’t and the industry needs to start playing a different game.