Reviewed by Gary Meyer
(02/07/07)

In this modest character study of a film, Maggie Gyllenhaal gives one of the most extraordinary acting performances you'll ever see, and one of the bravest, and one of the most physical, and one of the most unglamorous, and one of the most finely shaded. Unsympathetic, hard-edged, angry, vulgar, blazing with animal magnetism, Gyllenhaal commands every scene she's in and that's all of them. As in her uncompromising sexual dominance and submission triumph Secretary, directed by Steven Shainberg, her character has just been de-institutionalized at the film's start -- in Secretary from a mental institution, here from three years in the slammer for drug-related larceny. There the similarity stops. In Secretary, Gyllenhaal's character began as a mouse; here she's a tiger, trying to avoid being recaged, but unable to deny her instincts, the strongest of which is to regain custody of her young daughter.

Sherry's sexuality is blatantly commodified, like a prostitute's. She favors short skirts, tight jeans, and halter tops, and doesn't tend to wear a bra. Collyer's camera frequently peers pruriently down her cleavage. Her body is her only capital -- sex is her currency and has been since she started working as an exotic dancer at the age of 16, when her heroin habit began. Her stage name was Lolita.

Sherry's tragic flaw: she makes the mistake of refusing to take shit from anyone when that's precisely society's ordained penance for her crimes. She needs to suck up to her no-nonsense parole officer (Giancarlo Esposito), who thematically threatens her: 'I will violate you!" He won't let her manipulate him with sex, handcuffing Sherry against the wall when she fails to report in properly. She baits him: "You think just because you can send me back to prison, you're strong? I'M STRONG!"

She needs to suck up to her hostile sister-in-law Lynette (Bridget Barkan), who has been bringing up Sherry's child Alexis for her. She has to suck up to Andy (Rio Hackford), the director of her halfway house. This she immediately does in the first of several frank sex scenes, rear entry in the grotty basement. For Sherry, it's half pleasure, half policy -- it never hurts to get in good with an authority figure.

Another male authority figure, Sherry's employment counselor, gets an offer he can't refuse in return for a job working with children. No pleasure this time; it's all business and Sherry hates herself for it. The job's at a Catholic Charities youth program and Sherry upsets the other counselors by holding up her hands and having the kids show her how hard they can punch. In bed, Sherry pleads, "Lord, please, please, please, please, please, hear my extra prayer tonight." If she could come on to God, she would.

A standout piece of acting is Sherry's wrenching reunion with Alexis, her joyful, guilt-filled embrace of her confused daughter, who wonders, "Mommy? Where were you?" Sherry replies bluntly and honestly while Lynette looks on aghast. Patience and boundaries are out of the question where Alexis is involved, especially Lynette's refusal to allow Lexi to call Sherry "mommy" anymore. This sets Sherry off on a magnificent tantrum: "I'm her fucking mother!" as she paces the kitchen in frustration, repeatedly slamming a cabinet door in protest at the smug suburbanites who are holding Lexi hostage.

At a family gathering, Gyllenhaal brings out an unexpected childlike vulnerability in Sherry's character as she sings an amateurish "Eternal Flame" to Lexi at the supper table. (Her work on the Happy Endings soundtrack shows that Gyllenhaal is in fact an accomplished vocalist.)

At a Twelve-Step meeting, Sherry gets a ride home from a scary-looking guy named Dean, a fellow recovering substance abuser, and we get a casting treat. Dean is played by prolific character actor Danny Trejo, the ultimate ugly, scarred, tattooed, all-muscle heavy from The Devil's Rejects, From Dusk Till Dawn, Desperado, and Runaway Train. (Okay, he's in the Spy Kids movies, too.) Trejo's real life experience matches Dean's and Sherry's fictional backgrounds. He was in prison for robbery and drug offenses, where a Twelve-Step program saved his life. In sherrybaby, he's gentle, ursine, philosophical. And he gets the girl. Sherry reflexively shoots down his positive-thinking aphorisms:

"Nobody owns anybody."

"The state of New Jersey owns my ass."

Their sex scene in Sherry's motel room is tender. Dean chides her for drinking beer, a no-no for anyone in Twelve-Step, and watches her, clad only in minimal panties, do a little sinuous writhing on the bed before she turns out the lights.

What sends Sherry back to using is what also serves to explain her promiscuity and it's too obvious, the only false note in the film. Better if Collyer had allowed Sherry to be the way she is simply because she is that way. But even in the midst of conventional plotting, Gyllenhaal breaks through, proving that the deep honesty of great acting is its most subversive aspect. Her portrayal of the bliss and relief that drugs provide is shocking for its pure pleasure. Drug-using characters in movies usually get either wired or wasted. Gyllenhaal looks like she's having about a thousand orgasms -- reminding us that people take drugs to feel good, not to be bad.

The fine supporting cast includes Ryan Simpkins as Alexis, Brad William Henke as Sherry's sympathetic but wary brother Bobby, torn between Sherry and Lynette, and the state of New Jersey, playing itself.

There's no big dramatic climax, only one small step Sherry takes toward assuming responsibility for her life, toward being willing to do the work, have the patience, and become her own authority figure. Toward acknowledging that she can't go it alone and that being strong isn't enough.

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