Revenge of the nerds

Sleeper comedy 'Napoleon Dynamite' heads to DVD and classic status

Anyone who might be mulling summer vacation plans should be tickled to learn that it is not too late to book tickets for the second annual Napoleon Dynamite Festival on July 7 and 8 in Preston, Idaho.

If the lure of beautiful Preston (population 4,791, in the 2000 census) doesn't send you lunging for your American Express card, your heart will leap at the whirligig of activities inspired by the movie for which the festival was named. Choose from the Tater Tot Eating Contest, the Tether Ball Tournament, a performance by the Preston High School Happy Hands Club, the Moon Boot Dance Contest, the Napoleon Impersonation Contest, a school-bus village tour (arrive early to position yourself in the back seat where Napoleon tossed his action figure out the window) and an autograph opportunity with Lyle, the farmer who shot the cow.

For people who read this endorsement as the snide condescension of a city-dwelling film critic, rest assured that I would be there in a heartbeat if I hadn't squandered my frequent-flier mileage on a round-trip to Italy. Lake Maggiore might have its charms, but it can't offer a Preston Chamber of Commerce T-shirt that reads, "Tina, You Fat Lard, Come Get Your Dinner." O Tina, "ara mia!"

People who have had the "Napoleon Dynamite" experience will recognize Tina as the black llama owned by Napoleon's dirt-biking grandma. What they might not know is that Tina is actually Dolly Llama in real life and belongs to the mother of Jared Hess, the Preston-born, Brigham Young University-trained wunderkind, who, at 24, directed and co-wrote (with his wife, Jerusha) a teen comedy that has the feel of a classic.

I found this and many other essential tidbits of "Napoleon" on the two-disc special-edition DVD just released, which contains enough insider lore to reduce you to the glazed-eyelid pall of Jon Heder, its improbable star.

Rebirth of nerd cool

Filmed in Preston in summer 2003 on a $400,000 budget (Heder was paid $1,000 for his performance), "Napoleon Dynamite" overcame a double whammy of damning Variety columns upon its Sundance festival premiere, when Fox Searchlight won it in a heated bidding war and groomed it for box-office glory in summer 2004.

I was at that triumphant Sundance world premiere, and I shall never forget the tumultuous roar that erupted from the Park City Library audience midway into the picture as Napoleon, sporting his newly acquired brown, three-piece thrift-shop suit, strutted down the road in "I'm so boss" slow motion.

The Sundance delirium announced the ascension of movieland's reigning high school nonentity. As embodied by the director's fellow BYU-er Heder, Napoleon is a frizz-headed giraffe of teenage zombie-ness, clomping around in aviator glasses and blue moon boots or furtively sketching centaurs and unicorns during class. He is the token guy in the all-girl sign-language club, standing on the end and flapping his fingers to a synchronized-hand version of "The Rose."

Sputtering with negative superlatives and hissing punctured-tire style with undirected frustration, Napoleon is so fervent in his gaucheness that he tips over into a whole other realm of cool. Teenagers have a bad rap for cliquishness and group-think intolerance, but they actually have great respect for people courageous enough (or, as in Napoleon's case, oblivious enough) to own their warts and idiosyncrasies. It is the totality with which Napoleon wears his otherness to which young audiences have responded.

If you reduce it to its skeletal components, "Napoleon Dynamite" is a routine, revenge-of-the-nerds teen comedy. You've got your bullies, your wimps, your preening star jocks and stuck-up Heathers. There is a nasty student-government election, evil cafeteria chow and a drippy dress-up dance.

Shades of John Waters

Aaron Ruell, who plays Kip, Napoleon's computer nerd brother, offers a funny anecdote in the second of two DVD commentaries (both worth checking out) about the family origins of the movie's hilarious time-machine episode, one of the many eccentric flourishes that lend the film its singularly dorky "je ne sais quoi." The commentaries and the extensive making-of footage reveal the extent to which personal family chronicle (mostly those of the director and his wife) contribute to "Napoleon Dynamite's" authentic feel for regional absurdities.

Indeed, one could say that Jared Hess has done as much to consecrate Preston, Idaho, as a breeding ground of the banal as John Waters did for Baltimore. While Hess mentions the Coen brothers at the top of his list of influences, "Napoleon Dynamite" brandishes a double-edged sword of affection and attitude toward its home territory reminiscent of the kind wielded by Waters in everything from "Hairspray" to "Pink Flamingos."

One might pray that Hess is able to maintain both his rectitude and his waggish comic instincts as he wades into the waters of studio financing.

Hess and his wife have teamed again for the comedy "Nacho Libre," a summer release starring Jack Black. It could be a match made in heaven. I'm inclined to feel sanguine about a director, who, when asked to expound on his philosophy of filmmaking, picks a booger from his nose and flicks it out a car window.