You Just Ran Over Some Poor Feller's Dog!

Marley & Me (2008)

Rating ... F (7)

In one of 2008's more dubious accomplishments, Hollywood has implicitly acknowledged the limited potential and diminishing returns of cinematic canines; after all, how interesting do studios really consider man's best friend if they feel obligated to transpose the social dilemmas of humans onto dogs not once, but twice? Beverly Hills Chihuahua was a smug paean to celeb culture, dog-related only to the extent it envsioned them as a new dimension of privilege and Tinseltown trend-setting, while Marley & Me returns the favor to the masses because here, a dog is not merely a dog, but rather a guardian angel sent to shepherd proles along the white picket-fenced path to happiness and fulfillment. How abhorrent is that conceit, exactly? Let's just say after this year, Air Bud moved up a couple notches.

If the Air Bud franchise's sweeping stupidity could be summarized in one line, "Ain't nothin' in the rules say dogs can't play basketball / football / baseball / soccer / volleyball!" then Marley & Me's sole defining feature - unassuming yet incredibly offensive sincerity - could also fit the mold, presumably "Ain't nothin' in the rules say dogs can't function as rancid metaphors for Life Itself - more specifically how we should learn to love one another, value what we have, and excuse ignorance and inadequacy on the grounds of doing the best one can."

Tripe like the aforementioned is only the tip of the iceberg of Marley & Me's reprehensible sentiments, all of which come shackled with a full nest because once again a dog is not merely a dog, but rather a blueprint for familial construction, a foot in the door for inevitably having a baby, then another baby, then ANOTHER baby because at this point might as well keep trying until we get one of each gender. I mean, what could be more wonderful really? In any case, Marley & Me is so frequently and pervasively obnoxious in its portrayal of ideal American living that it's difficult to find a good starting point. Of course it goes without saying that the film is tailor-made for blind followers of dogs, the kind who would never tire of Marley's bland cycle of cute disobediance, absent reprimand on account of his novelty or fuzzy-wuzziness. (When Wilson and Aniston disrupt traffic by stopping in the fast lane to corral Marley and other drivers voice their discontent, guess who's in the wrong?) At first the film simply denies punishment - a first person scene of spray from a hose hitting the camera implies castigation after Marley eats a valuable necklace but it's merely Wilson watering down some dog poo - but then altogether praises his unchecked destruction, because who else but Marley could tear through obstructive packaging so easily? In the film's incessant man-dog parallels Marley & Me upholds outdated social standards by cheerfully equating a neutered Marley to a married male, and then never bothering to elaborate or qualify the stance, while on the only occasion the movie contests the otherwise unquestioned awesomeness of full family living it resorts to stereotypical gender roles and household drama. Aniston throws a bitchfit about the stress of taking care of her brood while Wilson predictably counters with how he's the family's sole provider; in the eyes of Marley & Me this constitutes legitimate malaise, and not the indulgent whining of two brats bemoaning their lack of peace and quiet in spite of choosing to raise three children and an unruly animal.

To make matters worse, when Marley & Me ventures into territory outside the homestead it comes across as phony and abusive - an underhanded device designed to ruffle Wilson's feathers and send him scurrying back to the terra firma of family living. The film opens with overly fanciful notions of employment - Wilson's boss is just waiting for him, the naturally talented individual, to request a better position so he can double his salary - before revisiting the subplot when Wilson turns forty, whenst he puts on an insufferable woe-is-me, world-crumbling-around-us act about the impurities he's uncovered as a star columnist. Naturally this necessitates an emotional release he's unable to assuage as a part of society (though it's acceptable Marley shut down Boca Raton's only dog-friendly beach while trying) but easily overcomes in the retreat to his close-knit family.

If any of this sounds remotely appealing, director David Frankel (surprisingly responsible for 2006's infinitely more balanced and nuanced The Devil Wears Prada) manages to stoop even further during the film's final moments when it becomes opportune to overdramatize Marley's eventual demise - who could have seen that coming? - and enunciate once more the profound meaning of this simple dog's existence. Wilson solemnly narrates about their marvelous relationship - the unequivocal way in which he loved Marley and Marley loved him back - and Frankel plays it po' faced, as though there wasn't the slightest bit of incredulity present in the concept of a dog's reciprocation of human love. Then again, at this point why not also celebrate self-delusion? Ain't nothin' in the rules say we have to stop at close-mindedness and banality.