"American Splendor" might have been more revolutionary if it had been made, oh, 10 years ago. But in the last decade alone, we've cinematically met and loved the jazz-collecting comic-book-obsessed fringe-dwelling character of R. Crumb in Terry Zwigoff's documentary "Crumb", and the jazz-collecting comic-book-obsessed fringe-dwelling character Seymour (Steve Buscemi) in Zwigoff's feature film "Ghost World". So does the world really need to get to know another jazz-collecting comic-book-obsessed fringe-dwelling character such as Harvey Pekar, the man who serves as a focal point for Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini's "American Splendor"?

Uh, yes we do. And then some.

When we first meet Harvey (Paul Giamatti), he's sitting in a doctor's office, clad only in a ratty boxer-shorts-and-undershirt ensemble. And he's lost his voice. It's a wonderfully apt moment. Not just because watching Harvey get frustrated by his inability to speak is a goldmine of comic opportunities (his ineffectual squeals produce much ore during the film's first third), but also because it metaphorically introduces the film's main themes. Harvey, a lowly file clerk at a Cleveland VA Hospital, is but one member of the disenfranchised masses. Even though he's relatively smart, he doesn't have a voice in American society. Who would want to hear what a file clerk has to say? The system is set up to keep him down in his dingy basement workspace, out of sight and out of mind.

But that's not enough for Harvey. Fortuitously, he befriends R. Crumb over their shared predilection for garage sale Jazz 78's. And when Harvey sees Crumb make it big in San Francisco's underground comic scene, he gets inspired to write a comic about himself. The one problem: Harvey can't draw anything more complex than a stick figure (and even his stick figures lack credibility, in relation to other, more competent stick figures). It's only when Crumb reads Harvey's words, and agrees to illustrate the book, that Harvey's voice -- miraculously -- returns to him. Okay, so it's a cheap, symbolic moment. But, for some reason, here it is delightful.

Where "American Splendor" really scores points, though, is in the stylish way it tells its story. When we see Harvey that first time in the doctor's office, a voice-over narrator introduces him. But, as we are soon made aware, it's not just any old voice-over narrator. It's the real Harvey Pekar, his own bad self! "Here's our man," he says, in that voice that sounds like it's seen a hundred too many screaming matches. "Alright, it's me," he admits, "Though he don't look like me." The amusement I detected in that last line indicates that Harvey, like the rest of us, is well aware that Giamatti does indeed look like him.

This is only the first step along a road that will lead Berman and Pulcini into a brand-new film genre. I'm calling it a "meta-docucomedy". The documentary qualities (of which the directors, 3-time documentarians, are old hats at) show up in the film's interview segments. Harvey, his wife Joyce, and even their friend, confessed "Genuine Nerd" Toby Radloff, all get a chance to talk to the camera. But sometimes these "real-life" segments are made to intrude upon the making-the-film segments, and vice versa.

One instance features Giamatti finishing up a scene, and then finding a seat between takes. The camera follows him, and the actor playing Toby (Judah Friedlander), as they lounge by the craft services table. In this same shot, we are treated to a scene of the Real Harvey and the Real Toby discussing the merits of several different jellybean flavours (you read that right). The audience quickly gets a grasp on these Real characters, and can measure how close Giamatti and Friedlander are in the portrayals of their oddball ticks. But we also get to see Giamatti, in the background, giggling to himself as he listens in on the absurdity that is Harvey and Toby's conversation. It's a strange thing, when your lead actor becomes a part of the audience. I can't tell if this scene was staged or not, but it comes across as authentic; Giamatti's mirth feels real, and is certainly infectious.

There are also several scenes where the Comic Harvey, often a very crude pencil sketch, interacts with the Giamatti Harvey, acting as an angel-and-devil-on-the-shoulder, or, at the very least, a manifestation of his Id. It further stretches the notion of who the real Harvey is. We get Harvey Pekar (as himself), Paul Giamatti (as Harvey Pekar), and drawings of Harvey Pekar, which are themselves composed of a number of different artists' interpretations of Harvey (Crumb included). For a film ostensibly about getting to the heart of a man's character (or at least an archetype's character), it sure does a heckuva job muddying the waters. Which is in itself an interesting commentary, i.e. can we ever really get to know a person? Harvey's cult-classic comic book (which shares its title with this movie) was all about getting to know the real Harvey, his obsessions, his unhappiness, his loneliness, and his anger with the world. But as Joyce points out in one of their joint interview sessions, Harvey did his best to leave out the happy bits of his life, because, in an odd bit of salesmanship, "misery loves company". Is Harvey Pekar a creation of a man, or an actual man himself? Thankfully, the film is aware enough of this dilemma to articulate it at one point.

Further complicating matters, the film portrays a number of Harvey's appearances on "Late Night With David Letterman". In a strange bit of mixing, it's Giamatti who leaves the green room and heads for the stage, but it's Harvey himself (and, amusingly, Letterman himself) who's shown on the show. One more instance of the line between character and person becoming blurred.

Paul Giamatti and Hope Davis portray Harvey and his wife Joyce (she's a mousy hypochondriac, defined by her lethargy but also by her passions). The scene where they meet for the first time, after a prolonged phone-pal friendship brought on by a fan letter Joyce wrote, is a wonder of restrained thespianism. Neither person is comfortable in their own skin; this is evident in their body language. And neither person is comfortable meeting the other; this is evident in their sporadic and tortured attempts at making eye contact. It's almost painful to watch, this quasi-courtship ritual of theirs, but bitingly real.

Davis is fine as Joyce, a shrill but devoted woman who is just as lonely as our protagonist. But it is Giamatti who deserves the lion's share of the credit here. In his first starring role, Giamatti (always an interesting supporting player) spends most of his time wearing a perturbed scowl. But through that one-note facial expression, he's able to not only relay annoyance, anger, and frustration, but also bemusement, levity, and ironic detachment. If it weren't such a backhanded compliment, I'd say that Giamatti was born to play Harvey (which is akin to saying someone was born to be a file clerk; some predestinations you just don't want to hear about). He inhabits the role completely, even overcoming the fact that the real Harvey turns up regularly. It's almost unfair to ask Giamatti to perform under those circumstances, for he can never hope to become the True Harvey in the audience's eyes. They've seen the True Harvey, after all. But Giamatti still does his duty admirably.

The only flaw with the film is its insistence, in its latter half, on embracing conventional narrative storytelling techniques. As in most biopics, there must be a crisis to get through, before the happy denouement. "American Splendor" certainly has its crisis, which I don't begrudge it. But the way said crisis is depicted is disappointing. After such a fresh and invigorating opening, it becomes standard fare. I'd have loved to see more of Comic Harvey or Real Harvey in these scenes, pushing on Giamatti Harvey just as they pushed him on during the more comedic first half. Instead, they disappear entirely, and the film takes on a somber tone. It's not a flaw that torpedoes the movie. But it does keep it from the plateau of perfection for which it was heading.

"American Splendor" is not your typical hope-overcomes-adversity story. It claims to be a story about real people, with real jobs, caught up in fantastic circumstances. But, as opposed to how these stories usually turn out, the fantastic circumstances here don't really change things. Harvey is still a loser stuck in a dead-end job, awaiting the day when he can retire and collect his pension. His life is about an endless series of small baby-steps, rather than any great leaps forward. A moment of candor brings on a frank admission (made to Crumb, of all people), which sums up the purpose of the film, Harvey's lonely life, and what might be the driving ethos of every working-class person in America: "I'd be glad to trade some growth for happiness." In a genre that often sees things the other way around, this statement becomes heartbreaking in its truthfulness. And, despite (or because of?) its post-modern pyrotechnics, so does the film.

Recommended: Yes