This jaw-droppingly black comedy (for such it is, more or less) can make you laugh out loud and screw your eyes away in horror at almost the same moment. Yet it's not just about shock effects. The apparently fearless Todd Solondz has made a real movie here, with real characters, no matter how depraved, and it is the skill, intelligence, and precision of his approach that give the discomfort (and the laughs) that rare quality: a true edge. If you can imagine some bizarre collaboration between Luis Bunuel, R. Crumb, and middle-period Woody Allen you might get an idea of what you're in for here.
As with Bunuel, Solondz' detached yet avid attention focuses less on condemnation than on watching what his characters do next. It isn't good: Hoffman, as a shy, inarticulate loner, releases his sexual frustration in abusive phone calls; Adams, as a sad-eyed, idealistic musician, floats from mishap to mishap like a semi-deflated balloon -- never rising yet never quite sinking either; Baker, playing a tortured family-man/therapist/pedophile, turns to predation. The sequences involving this last character constitute the movie's most quease-inducing thread, yet Baker's extraordinary performance, and that of the young actor Rufus Read as his son, make their scenes heartbreaking as well. (It should be noted that the cast all around is excellent, down to brief but memorable work by Jon Lovitz and Camryn Manheim.)
Solondz never softens: every time you think you sense a turn for the better in the whole business, something (rape, murder, suicide, theft) screws up the works. But the movie is ultimately about happiness, as both the title and the endearingly drippy song Adams performs remind us -- how fleeting it is, and how difficult to attain, and yet how transfiguring, even when it passes us by. I have not yet watched Solondz's other works, but I was impressed enough by the assurance of this one to seek them out. Movie-making as good as this is worth squirming for.
As with Bunuel, Solondz' detached yet avid attention focuses less on condemnation than on watching what his characters do next. It isn't good: Hoffman, as a shy, inarticulate loner, releases his sexual frustration in abusive phone calls; Adams, as a sad-eyed, idealistic musician, floats from mishap to mishap like a semi-deflated balloon -- never rising yet never quite sinking either; Baker, playing a tortured family-man/therapist/pedophile, turns to predation. The sequences involving this last character constitute the movie's most quease-inducing thread, yet Baker's extraordinary performance, and that of the young actor Rufus Read as his son, make their scenes heartbreaking as well. (It should be noted that the cast all around is excellent, down to brief but memorable work by Jon Lovitz and Camryn Manheim.)
Solondz never softens: every time you think you sense a turn for the better in the whole business, something (rape, murder, suicide, theft) screws up the works. But the movie is ultimately about happiness, as both the title and the endearingly drippy song Adams performs remind us -- how fleeting it is, and how difficult to attain, and yet how transfiguring, even when it passes us by. I have not yet watched Solondz's other works, but I was impressed enough by the assurance of this one to seek them out. Movie-making as good as this is worth squirming for.
