MacGuffin is a term used in the movies to describe a certain item that can advance the story but has no real meaning whatsoever. One of the most recent examples would be the glowing contents of the suitcase in “Pulp Fiction.” The object has been discussed and dissected by film geeks for more than a decade, with guesses ranging from an embodiment of violence to a human soul.
The reason for this definition is the recent indie darling “Juno,” which is winning praise from critics across the country for its sharp, incisive dialogue compliments of flavor-of-the-month writer Diablo Cody.
The female protagonist, a pregnant 16-year-old who has decided to place her child for adoption, is named Juno MacGuff, and she, as written by Cody, is merely an empty item that allows the writer to spout off witticisms and pop cultural knowledge as though she was on some VH1 “I Love the '80s” installment that, in the end, mean nothing.
Fittingly, Juno (played by Ellen Page) begins the film as a cartoon as the opening credits roll. Sadly, that is all she is the remainder of the film.
There is barely a moment of the film that this child, or this film, feels authentic. We are meant to be amused by Juno's straight-talking quirkiness, which is a mash-up of doctoral level knowledge of Trivial Pursuit obscurities and mall-speak. But every line is just some self-conscious blathering filled with plenty of attitude and not an ounce of heart.
If that were not enough, we are spoon-fed even more quirk by watching Juno gab on her kitschy hamburger phone ( don't worry if you did not know it was a hamburger phone, as Juno is compelled to random people on line that she is speaking on a hamburger phone), we watch her dine inside the school trophy case, we are deafened by the awkward indie-folk soundtrack (which, trust me kids, will not be as cool as you think it is once you download it on your iPods), we listen to her regurgitate lines like “I'd like to procure a hasty abortion.”
Really, who says this?
This is a lot of blame to place on the shoulders on one person in the entire production, but it is Cody's cellophane-thick foundation on which the entire film is based. It certainly is not the fault of the actors involved. As Juno, Page tries to make her seem somewhat normal, even though she's capable of espousing encyclopedic knowledge of punk rock and splatter films. Michael Cera is suitably awkward as the accidental father of the child and his former “Arrested Development” castmate Jason Bateman gives more legitimacy to the role of the tentative adoptive father than the part deserves. It's too bad Cody saddles him with the potential of being a child molester, as he becomes increasingly closer to the ever-wise Juno.
The film's only glimpse of what resembles humans are Jennifer Garner, as the perspective adoptive mother who longs to have a baby in her life. Again, as written by Cody, she is little more than a domineering, icy yuppie, forcing her hubby into parenthood. But it's through Garner's expressions when she feels the baby kick in Juno's stomach that give her role the warmth it requires.
The ever-dependable J.K. Simmons and Allison Janney also rise above their peculiarities (he takes to working on air conditioning units on the kitchen table, she cuts out pictures of dogs, even though she does not own one! How zany!). They lend the tiniest dignity in what is penned as stereotypical Minnesotan suburbanites.
Where “Juno” completely unravels, though, is in its superficial, tacked-on ending that tries to humanize its characters, attempting to convince us that somehow Juno cares for the stability of her adoptive couple, or love for her sperm donor. It all just reeked of some suck-up film school student protracting a “feel good” finale for the masses hungry for the next ray of “Little Miss Sunshine” to gobble up.
Too little, too late. For the majority Cody occupies herself with scribbling the line after line of T-shirt-ready dialogue (just in time for stores to take down all those passe “Napoleon Dynamite” “Vote for Pedro” shirts) with such poseur desperation you can almost smell the sweat.
I can only hope that this tidal wave of love splashed on the film will force repeated viewings, where the threads of this hand-me-down will become abundantly clear and reveal this indie emperor truly has no clothes.