Hollywood greats have come together in an uproariously funny black comedy led by Peter Dinklage about income inequality gone haywire. American Dreamer tackles pressing societal matters between fits of laughter. A foolhardy misanthrope’s fumbling troubles reveal hard truths. The average person can no longer afford a house. It used to be achievable and reasonable, now it is painfully out of reach. Desperate times may call for desperate measures if one wants a piece of the property pie.
Assistant professor at a Massachusetts college Dr. Phil Loder (Dinklage) drones on to his disinterested class about cultural and economic trends. He, like every other student save one, cannot wait for the lecture to end. Beautiful Clare (Michelle Mylett) hangs onto every word; her crush on the monotone teacher is not exactly secret. But Phil’s obsessions are not so much carnal as they are materialistic: he spends lonely nights looking at luxury homes online from his cramped apartment, even parking outside mansions for just a taste of the good life.
After work Phil races to see a stunning listing. He scoffs at the high price with potential buyers after downing some free wine and hors d’oeuvres. Dell (Matt Dillon), the property’s real estate agent, does not want to deal with his most annoying client. He yells at him for being unrealistic: How can a man who makes less than $50k/year afford a $10 million mansion? Phil lives in fantasy land; he’s a “dreamer, not a doer.” Adjust your expectations and look for a starter one-bedroom condo instead.
A chance rummaging through his office’s condiments drawer leads to the opportunity of a lifetime: there is an oceanside palace up for grabs for millions but the elderly owner will sell it to you right now for $240k with one catch – she gets to stay there until she dies, and the new owner must pay for everything. After a tour Phil and Dell are floored. Frail, wheelchair-bound Astrid does not have much time left on this earth. Phil will cash in his 401K, sell off everything he owns, and buy it immediately – life has finally given him a break. What could go wrong?
The film — based on a segment from This American Life’s radio show — establishes Phil as the bottom rung on the ladder visually: He has the worst parking spot in the lot; lunch is made up of the cheapest ham sandwich from a vending machine; his ‘80s Saab has more miles than the space shuttle; Phil has no money. The irony being an economics professor (someone who should know every trick to become wealthy) is flat broke. Yet Dell’s grievances with Phil also ring true: He’s not a hard worker; Phil would rather complain about the system than get another job; drum roll please…his teacher’s salary should be enough for mansion ownership! Damn those 1 percenters and their oppressive wealth gaps!
Dinklage is hilarious as an American Dreamer. He goes slapstick in the second act, and it works. The only problem is that Astrid is a spry 80-year-old who’s feeling great. Once Phil realizes he’s been had, their beloved home becomes a site of cartoonish disaster. Dinklage being turned into a punching bag gets huge laughs; he gets roughed up like the Wet Bandits at the hands of Kevin McCallister in Home Alone.
This might be too silly of a turn, but let this be another thing made crystal clear: Anything that seems too good to be true definitely is. And here, once again, the fine print serves as the header for Phil getting exactly what he paid for.
The salacious subplots of “American Dreamer” don’t hit right. Phil’s sexual exploits with lusty grad student Clare (Gruter-Andrew) and Maggie (Kim Quinn), Astrid’s lawyer “daughter,” fall flat after a couple easy laughs — Paul Dektor (“How to Become a…” docuseries on Netflix), also making his feature debut here, is just raunchy for raunchiness’ sake. Phil scoring like Steph Curry takes away from his crafted loser exposition; sure, there’s humor supposed to lie therein, but he’s just not believable as an unexpected lothario — that trope of attractive women falling for a supposedly dumpy dude needs to die.
Phil hallucinates having two beautiful wives who feed his delusions of grandeur — that part of the story makes sense within itself; our protagonist has crazy dreams and obvious mental health issues that fit into his larger theme about striving for what actually can happen. He answers correctly even with his wacky quest for thousands of square feet — he doesn’t want van or tent life; he knows damn well working-class people can own homes in America.
And give Danny Glover his flowers while we’re here — the man plays American Dreamer’s straight man/private eye perfectly. Watching Glover as a frustrated detective on Phil and Astrid’s tails is some of the funniest stuff in the movie, and he damn near steals it with his reactions to Dinklage.
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