Vincent (Bill Murray) is a hard-drinking, hard-living, hard-luck New Yorker. He lives alone, sleeps with a pregnant hooker (Naomi Watts), gambles away anything he earns that he doesn’t leave at the bottom of a glass. His bank account is overdrawn, his health is failing and he has no real friends that he doesn’t pay. He’s the joke-telling old guy at the end of the bar—entertaining for a bit, but no one you want in your life long-term. Theodore Melfi’s “St. Vincent” is defiantly crowd-pleasing, complete with the relatively shallow characters and simple resolutions that such an often-derogatory phrase encompasses. Critics often find a way to cut the legs out of a film just by virtue of how neatly it dots its i's and crosses its t's, as if making a movie that appeals to a wide demographic is inherently too easy to merit praise.