The online Urban Dictionary defines a “hasher” as, and I quote, “Reebok-wearing, mulleted person in acid-washed jeans and a Judas Priest T-shirt who, at the age of 28, still lives in his/her parents' basement and swears that he/she can really rock out on his/her Ibanez Stratocaster copy guitar and probably owns a Nova that hasn't run in five years.”
That’s a perfectly useful definition for the movie “Hesher” in which, over the course of 100 minutes (which feel more like 150), Joseph Gordon-Levitt, playing “Hesher,” proceeds to “hesh.” A non-functioning Nova he does not have, but he owns an enormous stinky van which actually does move, and in the automotive world, bark beats bite.
His clothes aren’t remarkably acid-washed, but they also don’t feature prominently. Hesher strips to his BVDs early on to do laundry. Even after laundry, he doesn’t bother much with his dilapidated heavy-metal t-shirts, preferring a naked-to-the-waist look, which reinforces his animalistic tendencies. Early in the film he scampers up a pole to illegally modify his host family’s cable service. He can’t abide without TV porn to nonchalantly ignore.
And his host family? Well, T.J. Forney (played by child actor Devin Brochu) finds Hesher in the wild, and Hesher follows him home. There Hesher finds T.J. dad, Paul (Seattle’s own Rainn Wilson), a somnambulant pillhead; and T.J.’s grandmother (Piper Laurie, still fiery-eyed from her turn as the mother in “Carrie”).
Hesher wears clothes when he wants to, sleeps when he wants to, smokes what he wants to when he wants to where he wants to. He consents to eat with the family, but his table manners seem canine.
If you’re wondering, “what happens” in this movie the answer is, either not enough, or too much of the wrong kind of things. At first it’s possible to see “Hesher” as a phantasm, created by the grieving and frequently bullied T.J. as a “Fight Club” manifestation of his own revenge fantasies. But that doesn’t hold—even if Hesher can somehow smoke a cigarette in the middle of a crowded school hallway—because other people can see and react to Hesher and to T.J. at the same time.
I should mention that Natalie Portman plays the “female lead” in this movie and she’s as charming as she usually is, playing pretty much the “Natalie Portman” we’ve come to love and respect. But she can’t salvage the sludge all around her, and I’m betting this picture would be buried without her “Black Swan” Oscar.
If this film could have gotten itself together (maybe after the laundry was done), it could have showcased young Mr. Brochu’s impressive physical stamina and his laudable range of emotions within a narrowly written character.
But it doesn’t. None of the strife or violence connects to any larger point. The talented Mr. Wilson, a star of TV’s “The Office,” isn’t given anything to do but fall asleep and sometimes wake back up. Ms. Laurie finds chemistry with Gordon-Levitt in a humorous dope-smoking scene, but otherwise just wanders.
Nothing is gained from all of this disconnected "heshing." The credits roll, the lights come up, the cast moves on to hopefully more compelling projects, and 100 minutes (which feel more like 150) of your precious time is wasted. Go for a walk instead. You’ll absorb more.
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