HOME ALONE (1990) **1/2 For most directors it would be a bad idea to shamelessly imitate another, but for Chris Columbus it's not so bad an idea. Not entirely as an insult, either-he does a better than passable Spielberg. The saccharine human warmth, the edge of socially acceptable decadences (rich parents work so hard putting up with their obnoxious relatives that they forget about their son/abandoned kid reflexively lashes out, without apparent effect on child or parent), the American suburbia that's little more than Norman Rockwell in a slightly bad mood. That's not all that much to build a film on, but Macaulay Culkin so enthusiastically overplays his best lines, and Joe Pesci and Daniel Stern are so hopelessly fated to engage in a pattern of behavior so stupid as to be impressive, that it's not all that difficult to smirk at parts. Which is good, because the heavy artillery is coming (such as it is). John Hughes' serial spectacle of torment-concocted for Pesci and Stern-is so wonderful, so horrible, so visual and ingenious that you could almost imagine it taking shape beneath the pen of Roald Dahl. Even better, it doesn't stretch imagination too much to believe that young master Macaulay could think up every which one, lost in the dormant resources of such a potentially splendid house. The best part, though, is probably John Candy and the polka bums. The only intellectual commentary on anything, certainly, is the reaction of Catherine O'Hara to them, after they save her Christmas through human kindness.
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