“King of California” is a coming-of-age fantasy set in the hinterlands of Los Angeles County. I apply here the term “fantasy” advisedly. Any one scene could, in reality, occur. There are no faeries or miracles, no alchemy to defy the laws of physics. Yet the chain of events is so wildly improbable that if we are to suspend our disbelief – and I do so happily and willingly – then we come away feeling to have crossed into a fantastic realm.
Which is a rather pleasant place to be. There’s an undercurrent of humor here as workmanlike as it is playful. Michael Douglas acts the nut-case-of-a-father with a sparkle in his eye. We understand immediately why his independent-minded child, played by Evan Rachel Wood, should not only countenance his abuse but go on to develop her hypnotic fascination with electric dishwashers.
(Never has Michael Douglas so eerily resembled father Kirk. One suspects an homage.)
Any gripe of mine comes as a Los Angeles resident and regular Costco shopper. The film could have used additional fictionalization. I was distracted by geographical inaccuracies during the treasure hunting sequences. Similarly, I’ve never seen scuba gear for sale at Price Club. Ditto for a Makita jackhammer. (An air compressor, yes!) It jarred me awake in the middle of my dream.
I saw “King of California” (without the “The” as far as I can recall) with my 16-year-old daughter who, incidentally, liked it more than I. Considering the film’s subject matter, that has heightened immensely my prospects for the long-term.