Without the pedigree of actors found within, St. Vincent would have been a lesser film by a wide margin. The script is overly-sentimental in parts but Bill Murray and company keep it from getting too sloppy. The title character, who probably appeared as a caricature on the page – the nasty curmudgeon with a secret heart of gold – was taken down a genuine path by the attentive Murray, allowing us to both love and hate him passionately. The quieter moments of the film, where Vincent is allowed happiness and fleeting shots at normalcy, feel like they are careening towards schmaltz but never quite go over the edge thanks to rock-solid casting and performances. In essence, St. Vincent is an exercise in restraint against all the odds and a testament to how far a group of capable actors can take a paper-thin plot.