With sex, drugs, smutty language and a slew of one-liners, Augusten Burroughs’ memoir Running With Scissors has all the ingredients of a great blockbuster. However, films rarely live up to their literary counterparts, and Nip/Tuck director Ryan Murphy has clearly made some nips and tucks that have left the story dull.
The film glosses over Burroughs’ early childhood in a series of short scenes, leaving the story unanchored until his manic-depressive, narcissist mother leaves the 13-year-old Augusten in the custody of her manipulative, pill-pushing therapist Dr. Finch. At this point, she has already scared away his alcoholic father, played by the fabulous Alec Baldwin. Although Annette Benning may upstage Baldwin in her appropriately over-the-top performance as the larger-than-life mother and poet Deirdre, Baldwin delivers a subtle performance with the hopeless desperation that the screenplay fails to carry from the book.
Despite a laundry list of who’s who in Hollywood, the film depends on its lesser-known actors for momentum. The famous Gwyneth Paltrow and Joseph Fiennes are flat, their characters unbelievable, while less renowned Jill Clayburgh brings humanity to the cartoonish wife of Dr. Finch. Newcomer Joseph Cross plays the difficult role of Burroughs and nicely captures the character: a child wise beyond his years, forced to grow up yet trapped with the ghost of his mother and his dysfunctional adopted family.
The flow of the film is as manic as Burroughs’ mother. More painful scenes like those depicting her emotional breakdowns pass in excruciatingly slow motion to jarring soundtrack choices, such as “Blinded by the Light.” These cabaret-like numbers are just as we imagine Burroughs would have wanted them.
The film, however, rushes the story. In adapting the screenplay, Murphy sacrifices depth for mass appeal, and in losing these subtler elements the film becomes farcical. He includes numerous ridiculous scenes, but glosses over the complications in Burroughs’ relationship with his 35-year-old schizophrenic lover, Bookman. While the farce has its place, it is not appropriate for this depressing story. The book works because Burroughs, as a writer, is funny; Burroughs’ life, however, is not. Comedic elements in the book lighten an otherwise unbearably depressing tale, but they are compliments to the incredible underlying story. The film’s jokes seem forced and are often at the expense of more important elements of the story.
Despite all these flaws, this film is still worth seeing simply for the story, even if it’s an abridged version of Augusten’s life. The film opens with the line, “It doesn’t matter where I begin, ’cause no one is gonna believe me anyway.”
This is where you miss the book most. In the book, you are constantly reminded that because Augusten is writing, he has survived. We know this in the film, but as it unfolds, we forget. The audience loves and hates the characters, even if they are two-dimensional. We inevitably root for Burroughs. Even if the film is uncomfortable—painful, even—we are relieved to see the real life Burroughs sitting next to his young, Hollywood counterpart in the closing credits. When given concrete evidence of his endurance, we leave impressed, moved and satisfied.
