- Nanny (Scarlett Johansson) thought caring for Grayer (Nicholas Art) would be a piece of cake.
The industry leader is, of course, former New York nannies Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus' The Nanny Diaries, about an NYU student who takes a job caring for the four-year-old son of an Upper East Side businessman (Mr. X) and his society-lady wife (Mrs. X). I found the book neither "deliciously funny" (The New York Times) nor "impossible to put down" (Vogue), but rather a crudely written screed against the sinful indulgences -- and poor parenting skills -- of the moneyed elite, fascinating only in its frequent blurring of the line between resentment and envy. For all her self-righteous indignation at being asked to pick up Mrs. X's dry cleaning, the book's nanny (called Nanny) at least acknowledges the seductive pull of the privileged world in which she is a periodic guest star, sure as she is that she'd be a better mother -- and an all-around nicer person -- if the Manolo Blahnik were on the other foot.
The film version of The Nanny Diaries, which was written and directed by husband-and-wife team Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini (American Splendor), is a largely faithful adaptation, but it manages to improve the story in several key respects. Mostly it makes Nanny into a more appealing figure (and not just because she's played by Scarlett Johansson); here, rather than being a seasoned pro, she's a child-care novice who possesses a less odious temperament than her literary counterpart, who didn't seem to like kids to begin with. The film has also deprived Nanny's charge, Grayer X (Nicholas Reese Art), of some of his brattier behaviors, which helps to make the story's central conceit -- that Nanny sticks around because of her feelings for the boy -- a lot easier to swallow onscreen than it was on the page.
But Berman and Pulcini, former documentarians who segued to features with American Splendor, can spin only so much cinematic silk from literary leather. Like the book, the Nanny Diaries movie never finds a dramatic center. The story hopscotches between Nanny-Grayer bonding sessions, Nanny's flirtations with a neighbor known as Harvard Hottie (Chris Evans, who we're supposed to believe Johansson thinks is out of her league), and the Xes' gradual progression toward becoming the Exes. It's also a jumble of disparate tones, oscillating wildly from under-the-skin satire to over-the-top parody. For all their skill with actors (as Mrs. X, Laura Linney does her best) and knack for filming Manhattan burnished by a radiant glow, the filmmakers don't feel nearly the same affinity for this uptown crowd that they did for Harvey Pekar and his scrappy Cleveland cohorts. There, they found the soulful artist lurking beneath the crusty, curmudgeonly exterior. Here, they see only cardboard figures in an absurd landscape, right down to their comic-book obscuring of Mr. X. Played, when you can see him, by Splendor's Paul Giamatti, he spends the movie hiding behind cell phones and copies of The Wall Street Journal. That's all well and good, provided you believe that the idle rich are as idle and contemptible as everyone says they are, and that those who work for a living are worthy of canonization.
Curiously, the most compelling (if only half-formed) idea in the film has less to do with class than with parenting -- how parents can, out of fear or selfishness or both, abdicate the responsibility of child-rearing to self-appointed experts and Ivy League grade schools, and how when a marriage goes south, children can become assets akin to investment accounts or property deeds. That's a rich subject for a film, but it's drowned out by the rest of this half-cocked martyr movie about a plucky young lass sticking it to the corrupt bourgeoisie.