What seems worthy of modern satire is often a hair's breadth from pillorying itself, and the gray zone between unamusingly tedious and roaringly redundant seems to be shrinking with every new reality show, post-postmodern marketing-media experiment and governmental depravity. What's to mock anymore? For such a narrative to lock gears, a certain self-knowledge, an ironic sense of first-person evildoing, is unavoidable, but it presents this dilemma: How do scumbags look in the mirror and explain themselves to their children? Buckley tried and failed to plumb the rational depths of a tobacco lobbyist's moral vacuum, and so does the movie it remains an appalling mystery. "Paying the mortgage" is the basest rationalization given, but, as we all know, there are more livable ways to do that.
Nick Naylor (Aaron Eckhart) is the go-getter in question, an ex-jock-style salesman who puts a public face on the cigarette industry: smug, effective and unscrupulous. Narrating in amused confessional mode, Naylor is a happy mercenary until his son (played by creepy-kid-of-the-moment Cameron Bright, also in Ultraviolet) wakes him up and presents him with a ready-made conflict: Try to rationalize your real-world actions (annual tobacco fatality rates are quoted repeatedly) but still be a good dad.
In Hollywood (first-time director Jason Reitman is Ghostbusters director Ivan Reitman's son), the dilemma has only one schmaltzy answer, and Thank You for Smoking tries not to cop out on its way to a fizzle. But the movie is all funaholic appetizer anyway, buttressing Eckhart's boy-faced sell-monster with competitive lobbyist pals (boozer Maria Bello, gun-excuser David Koechner), a splenetic boss (J.K. Simmons) and a humorless Christian senator adversary (William H. Macy). The attempts at blackened corporate humor are strenuous, from an argument between the lobbying lunch buddies over whose product is more deadly to a daytime-TV appearance by a "cancer kid" who, Naylor insists, Big Tobacco wants to keep alive and smoking.
But Thank You for Smoking is no densely conceived cut of steak; Buckley is best at sharp-tongued one-liners, which constitute a lion's portion of the script, and for that it's difficult to be ungrateful. "We sell cigarettes," Simmons' hard-charging exec bellows in frustration. "They're cool, available and addictive. The job is almost done for us!" Several subplots (most notably those involving Katie Holmes' dewy-eyed reporter and Robert Duvall's aged billionaire) fall limp, but sitcom vet Adam Brody as the sycophantic assistant to Rob Lowe's mega-agent crams more industry mockery into two minutes of screen time than State and Main managed at all.
But instead of hitting the gas, Reitman keeps his movie small, unvaried, slack and deliberately and oddly completely smoke-free. Not a single butt is lit, even though Eckhart's semi-hero is forced to quit halfway through, with no discernible impact on his disposition or the story. Was Reitman nervously pandering to the smokeless choir, or did he decide that actual smoking, in a movie wholly taken up with how to whitewash death, disease and culpability, was beside the point? Did Buckley's hero help write the screenplay, and did Raleigh-Winston money change hands? The result is a little disorienting think Dr. Strangelove without bombs or Super Size Me without burgers. How deep can a satiric bite be when the object of outrage has been wrung out of the mix, just as a lobbyist would've wished?