Kelly is a onetime ’90s riot grrrl, now a domesticated new mom and prisoner of suburbia. Who better to play the part than Juliette Lewis, a survivor of such wild-child projects as Natural Born Killers and Strange Days and a veteran musician known for her theatrical caterwauling? Lewis lends lived-in credibility to the otherwise bogus Kelly & Cal, a stilted indie without a compass. Kelly is new to the neighborhood, shunned by the local ladies (they suggest she consult their website if she’d like to join their social group), and ignored by husband Josh (Josh Hopkins), who’s at the office all day. And so she starts hanging out with local teen Cal (Jonny Weston, from Chasing Mavericks), a paraplegic who makes it clear he’s interested in Kelly’s body as well as her sassy punk-rock attitude.
A series of contrivances allows the plot to unfold: Josh’s mother (Cybill Shepherd, spacey as ever) and sister (Lucy Owen) insist on tending the new baby in the afternoons—they consider Kelly’s blue hair dye a sign of post-partum mental illness—thus making plenty of free time for Kelly to lounge around in Cal’s garage. Even if you’re with the movie thus far and sympathetic to the trapped feelings of the title characters, there’s a moment when director Jen McGowan and screenwriter Amy Lowe Starbin fumble it all away: Kelly plays a cassette from her music days for Cal, and the song—“Moist Towelette”—rings out. I couldn’t tell whether the movie wants us to take this straight or as a parody of a riot-grrrl anthem; either way, it makes Kelly look idiotic (the sound is good, but the lyrics are impossible). In fact, “Moist Towelette” and an end-credits tune called “Change” were written and performed by Lewis in the mode of something her character might create.
The film becomes increasingly unbelievable, but the most annoying thing about it is the failure to commit. Kelly & Cal doesn’t have the nerve to go all the way with its more troubling implications, so it stays on the surface throughout. In the movie universe, there must be a place for the curious lost-girl presence of someone like Juliette Lewis, but if this film gets the casting right, it blows the execution. Opens Fri., Oct. 3 at SIFF Film Center. Not rated. 109 minutes.
film@seattleweekly.com
