Name Above the Title

GOD'S POCKET (A-minus) - It's a little heartbreaking to watch Philip Seymour Hoffman, post-mortem. It's touching to see his name immediately precede God's in the opening titles. About 80 minutes later, as the end credits roll, the heartbreak is complete, as you are reminded, yet again, how he was able to take a flawed script and turn it into a memorable film.

Not that the screenplay for "God's Pocket" is a dud in anyway. In fact, it's a surprisingly funny and touching late-'70s period piece. It's a legitimate black comedy, sly and knowing in its depiction of a few days in the life of a petty criminal (in a blue-collar South Philly neighborhood full of 'em) trying to get his step-son to the kid's own funeral. Hoffman is Mickey, who runs his own meat business. He's married to Jean (a lost Christina Hendricks from "Mad Men"), who brought to the marriage a slacker son who is mangy and hopped up on speed.

The kid ends up dead at his job at the plant after acting like a total jerk. The body is taken to Smilin' Jack's funeral home, and now Mickey must find at least six grand to give the stiff a sendoff that won't disappoint the missus. He'll need his buddy Arthur "Bird" Capezio (John Turturro) to help him out of his fix.

The locals are pitching in. The sad regulars at the corner loser bar (called The Hollywood) stuff a jar with $1,400 in bills. (In one of the best gags of the film, the square-jawed barman, Mole (a perfect Jack O'Connell), puts the cash in a paper bag, hands it to Mickey -- and asks Mickey to return the bag when he's finished with it.

There are some tired tropes to be found, for sure: the shlub of a husband huffing and grunting in bed above his hot wife who looks bored; the betting of your stash on a horse that can't lose; a pistol-packin' old lady; a drunk who chugs his booze; even an awkward tip of the hat to "Weekend at Bernie's." But those are minor distractions. And some of those awkward moments somehow feel like homages to classic '70s urban dramas (and TV shows). This has the grit and grime of some of the best from that era; it's no poseur.

Turturro is on top of his game here. The film has his scent all over it. I wouldn't be surprised if he was looking over the shoulder of first-time feature-film director John Slattery ("Mad Men's" Roger Sterling) throughout the production. Richard Jenkins, however, doesn't come off so well. He's our narrator, a seriously alcoholic daily newspaper columnist (in the style of Mike Royko) assigned to snoop around the job site to see if Mom's hunch is right, that her baby's death wasn't an accident. His local celebrity status makes him improbably irresistible to women (look for the riveting Sophia Takal from "Supporting Characters" who steals a scene as a randy journalism student), but Jenkins' hard-boiled Mike Hammer shtick is woefully hit-and-miss. He and Hendricks both fall flat, especially in their scenes together. She's particularly adrift in the role of the distraught mother, which perhaps betrays Slattery's inexperience in guiding a close colleague.

However, Slattery (who co-wrote the adaptation of a Pete Dexter novel with Alex Metcalf) shows a sure hand in weaving the characters and wisecracks and bitterness into a believable and entertaining film. It feels like an organized mess. And it sure didn't hurt to have Hoffman there to glue it all together. Poor Mick is human and vulnerable and gob-smacked trying to make his sorry life work.

God knows what Hoffman was going through when he turned in one of his last powerful performances. This is an honorable sendoff.