The Nanny Diaries
“The Nanny Diaries” ought to be a tart-tongued satire of Manhattan bluebloods and their contradictory approach to child-rearing: laissez-faire but absurdly demanding. Instead, it takes its cues from the opening verse of the Whitney Houston chestnut “Greatest Love of All.” It believes the children are our future, and so forth. Even if their parents treat them like foundlings swaddled in Burberry. “The Nanny Diaries” has a reasonably promising central idea: The title character fancies herself an anthropologist, teasing out the mysterious rituals of Upper East Side domestic life. But the movie gives in to ho-hum sentiment, insisting that the kid, tantrums aside, remain adorable and unsullied by his upbringing. Like many a movie child, he’s capable of heart-tugging accidental profundity. As the boy’s parents, directors Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini cast serious actors who can’t do shallow. Laura Linney projects the crumbling vulnerability of a woman abandoned by the husband she built her life around, and Paul Giamatti is schlubby and sour – a Wall Street tycoon beaten down by his profession. These people aren’t funny – they’re depressing. Scarlett Johansson does earthy work as the nanny, but the screenplay does her no favors, embracing hoary clichés about finding yourself and your Prince Charming. Chris Evans plays the flawless love interest with grace, but this is fantasy, not anthropology. A movie diarist can be a nanny or a princess, but the uninspired formula remains the same.
LISTEN: The Nanny Diaries