F

Moviegoers thinking back on last summer’s surprise smash “The
Sixth Sense” might expect that another picture pairing Bruce
Willis with a young boy would be a great idea. Big mistake.
Instead of a spooky, unsettling ghost story, “Disney’s The Kid”
is a forced, frenetic farce which tries to be both comedic and
touching, but fails on both counts. It proves only that Spencer
Breslin, the tyke on display here, is no Haley Joel Osment;
that neither scripter Audrey Wells nor director Jon Turteltaub
is in the same league with M. Night Shyamalan; and that Willis,
who’s capable of giving solid, laid-back performances, is as
awful as ever when he strains and pushes too hard (this is one
of those smarmy, irritating turns in which he seems to be
smirking and peeking out of the corner of his eyes at the
audience, as if to say “Look, I know this is crap, but you’re
the ones who are paying to watch it”).

The picture basically hearkens back to the mercifully brief
rage of a decade or so ago, when theatres were filled almost
continuously with alternately shrill and maudlin flicks about
kids changing places with adults. Penny Marshall’s “Big”
(1988) was certainly the best of the bunch; but “Disney’s The
Kid” is more akin to such drek as “Like Father, Like Son”
(1987) and “Vice Versa” (1988). The conceit is that a mean,
misanthropic image consultant is, on the very verge of turning
forty, miraculously visited by his own eight-year old self,
with whom he gradually bonds (so what else is new?). In the
process of aiding one another, the two engage in a series of
slapstick escapades, some time-travelling that makes one long
for “Back to the Future,” and–needless to say–an incredibly
mawkish finale involving an incomprehensible “Field of Dreams”-
like twist. Though there are occasional episodes spotlighting
Emily Mortimer as Willis’ obviously smitten assistant and Lily
Tomlin as his inevitably long-suffering, wise-cracking
secretary, the focus remains resolutely on the star and his
miniature alter-ego, and the sad truth is that the two don’t
strike any cinematic sparks. Both man and boy pull out all the
stops, to be sure, hamming it up fiercely in virtually every
scene, but Wells’ script (incoherent even on its own silly terms)
and Turteltaub’s sledgehammer directorial technique assure that
they won’t be able to lift the picture above the level of a
clumsy, insipid fable about a baby boomer’s desperate need to
recapture the innocence of his youth.

That this subject can actually be handled gracefully and well
was shown more than forty years ago in Rod Serling’s 1959
episode of the old “Twilight Zone” series called “Walking
Distance.” That short piece showcased Gig Young as an unhappy
executive who was magically transported back to his home town,
where he tried to give his younger self the benefit of his
later experience. Poignant and ethereal, that show puts this
sappy piece of sentimental drivel to shame. (It also boasted a
haunting score by Bernard Herrmann which stands in marked
contrast to the insufferably perky-and-saccharine music
provided by Marc Shaiman here.)

Check out Serling’s aging 25-minute playlet, and you’ll
immediately see what’s missing from this crass, manipulative
misfire. “Disney’s The Bomb” is more like it.