What's the difference between Bill Murray and Al Pacino these days? Not much. Pacino might be shorter, Murray might have less hair, but otherwise they could be spiritual brothers from alternate cinema universes — seriously. Someday, a producer will stumble upon that truth and make a buddy movie with the two of them. In the meantime there's "Danny Collins" starring Pacino, which opens in Japan the same week as "St. Vincent" with Bill Murray.
They're both delightful films, affording the same sort of dry, bitter flavor redolent of old sherry. Pacino and Murray can be major assholes, but that's part of their charm. They're the kind of guys older women dream of dating, mainly because they seem open to the idea of dating older women. Besides, few men can get over the hill and still know how to spew one-liners with attitude and a wink. If you're in the mood for pointers on life after 60, Murray's Vincent is the go-to guy, but for soul-searching after 70 — with John Lennon's greatest hits playing in the background — Pacino's Danny is your man.
Having just piled on the compliments, it's a tad regretful to have to say that "Danny Collins" isn't one of Pacino's best works. And that's putting it kindly. Danny is rich and obnoxious, an aging rock star schmuck who lives in the Hilton and hangs out with Annette Bening. He has no idea of the struggles of the 99 percent, the plight of fast food workers or the devastating effects of climate change. (At least Vincent was aware of the problems of modern life and was depressed about them.)