Identical twins make movie, write boring book about the experience.
“The Bros,” as they refer to themselves, recount their struggle to produce a feature film honoring the life of their father, a homeless alcoholic who died alone in jail. The baseball-players-turned-neophyte-moviemakers had a rough time, learning on the job as they struggled to find financing, negotiate with bureaucrats for permits and deal with inclement weather and skittish actors. They generally flailed about in the manner familiar to viewers of Project Greenlight or any of the myriad films about the difficulties of making films. The authors aren’t covering any new ground here, and the crises threatening the completion of their cinematic roman-a-clef—Touching Home, a title to chill discerning moviegoers’ blood if ever there was one—are decidedly low stakes. Compared to such infamous production snafus as Martin Sheen’s heart attack on the set of Apocalypse Now, the Millers’ picayune setbacks—crewmembers turning up late, equipment malfunctioning, money being mismanaged—fail to generate much drama. Much of the story centers around their successful campaign to secure modest movie star Ed Harris as the lead in their film. If Harris had been a raging diva given to outrageous behavior, there might have been a story here; as it stands, the authors’ effusive paeans to his professionalism and integrity quickly pall. Strangely, the Bros don’t discuss their baseball careers (apparently central to the film’s narrative), their cinematic inspirations, their feelings about acting and directing with no prior experience or Touching Home’s place in the tradition of baseball-themed male weepies. They are content to tell a few mild anecdotes, praise the cast and crew and lament the sad end of their father’s life. This pleasant, bland chronicle of a wearyingly familiar subject provides little of interest for anyone beyond the authors’ immediate circle.
Rent Truffaut’s Day for Night instead.