Film Review: Your Friends and Neighbors

The Joylessness Of Sex

Over it’s brilliant opening credits, Your Friends And Neighbors reveals it’s intent and subject matter immediately and perfectly. Behind some staid Alex Katz paintings of highbrow cocktail party-attending professionals wearing pastel-colored suits plays Metellica’s Enter Sandman performed by a group using only four cellos. The piece’s classical nuance is, almost subliminally, subverted and made slightly disturbing by its underlying anarchy. Eventually, after we see how awful most of the cast treats each other, all is made clear: no amount of civility and usage of 35 cent words can ever hide souls as black as these. Yes friends, we’re back in writer/director Neil LaBute’s dark forest and even those who’ve already squirmed their way through his In The Company Of Men haven’t seen anything nearly as nihilistic, as condemning of our modern human condition as Your Friends And Neighbors (this movie, which contains no violence and almost no nudity, was originally given an NC-17 rating by the MPAA. On appeal, it was reduced to an R). And just as its title suggests, these monsters may only be a hair’s breadth away.

The film jokingly lists its six characters’ names in the final credits as Mary, Barry, Terri, Jerry, Cheri and Cary but no one in the film ever calls anyone by name (they don’t have nearly enough respect for each other to go to the bother). This nameless name-calling also lends the screenplay some hard-earned authenticity. It’s jarring to find yourself halfway through a film and still only able to identify the characters by description but it also sounds incredibly natural, it sounds real. Think of the last person you talked to. How many times did you have to say their name out loud? You didn’t because that’s only a theatrical device, a “helper” for the slower people in the audience.

One last clever gimmick employed in this film is that no one other than its six characters has any speaking roles whatsoever. No waiter ever asks for their order, no doorman offers a “Good day,” and no stranger ever approaches them asking for the time. These characters exist in a vacuum of their own discord. The input and opinions -- hell, the very existence of the entire outer world, is moot to them as they only believe that their gripes, their problems, their selves is the only thing that matters.

In a nutshell, the film is a simple sexual roundelay between six people, four of which are in a relationship. Aaron Eckhart (please Mr. LaBute, continue to cast this great actor in all of your films) and Amy Brenneman are married but they’re troubled by some unspoken tensions, some powerful undertow that keeps pulling them further and further apart. We know some things need fixing when Eckhart admits to a coworker fairly early on that he’d rather masturbate than have sex with another human. Reminds me of that old Woody Allen line “Don’t knock masturbation. It’s sex with someone I love,” but his admission clearly indicates either a loss or fear of intimacy.

Ben Stiller and Catherine Keener are lovers but seem to be disgusted by each other from their very first scene. And that they’re having sex in that first scene while openly displaying those feelings doesn’t bode well for their future. Frustrated in that relationship, Stiller initiates an affair with Brenneman but when their first rendezvous doesn’t turn out to be the joyous experience they both expected, tensions are ratcheted even higher and malicious endeavors are increased. Just halfway through the film, these people’s selfish and hateful attitudes are pulled so tight we almost fear that their intense inner anger could, when combined, tear the very planet apart.

Nastassja Kinski is the somewhat innocent outsider unlucky enough to get herself involved with this group. A gallery employee with the misfortune of meeting each of these art-loving psychopaths as they each separately peruse her museum supplies this film with one of its few honest laughs. Each character, looking at the same exact painting, asks her if it’s crooked and she continually tells them No, that’s the way it’s supposed to be presented. Again, these four characters are so self-involved that their first inclination is that it’s the world that’s out of whack, not them.

In a class by himself is actor Jason Patric, who also produced this film. His character, a single friend of the others working in some capacity in the medical field, is so predatory, so vicious, that he seems completely able to sustain himself on only the misery and fear he causes in others. The fact that his victims are mostly of the opposite sex (but not always) makes him even more disturbing than Eckhart’s Chad in In The Company Of Men. In that film, LaBute’s first, Chad set out to destroy “only” one single woman as payback for all the wrongs he imagined females have perpetrated on men. But in this film, Patric is a vampire who seems to see the whole world as his for the taking. In one of the most chilling, most disgusting scenes I’ve seen in my 40 years, the three men sit in a steam room and tell each other of the best sex they ever had. That Patric’s story revolves around a homosexual rape and, even worse, obviously feels no remorse about it at all is something I wish I could remove from my memory. Forget all the monster movies you’ve ever seen, LaBute seems to be saying, the truest evil in this world can’t be found under the bed or in a closet in the dark but by simply asking someone if they’re free tonight; dealing with the opposite sex, and sex itself, makes monsters of us all.

This deadly intelligent and articulate film isn’t all perfect. Unlike In The Company’s double twist at the end, Your Friends And Neighbors doesn’t seem to know where to land at its conclusion. With no complicated or surprising plot machinations to mull over, one walks away from it dazed and weary. While there’s no fake happy ending, there’s no comeuppance for any of the characters, either. One assumes they’ll just go on as they have until they eventually implode from their own misbehavior. Aside from wanting to take a shower, I didn’t know quite what to do with myself after seeing it; it disturbed me that much.

Brilliant, but only for viewers with iron stomachs.

3.5*'s out of 4 (Very Good)

Film Review: Lost Highway

Secrets Travel Fast


To this film's detractors who are accusing it of not making any sense, I ask: Except for one character inexplicably turning into another at two points in the film, what exactly don't you understand?

Fred Madison (Bill Pullman) is a sax player who doesn't trust his wife. She doesn't answer the phone when he calls from the club, is friends with unsavory pornographers and patronizes him during sex. To make matters worse, someone is leaving videotapes on their doorstep, someone who obviously has access to their house and likes to tape them while they sleep. When Renee is brutally murdered, all evidence points to Fred. Despite his claims of not remembering committing the crime, he's imprisoned and sentenced to death. In his cell one night, Fred transforms into teenager Pete Dayton which results in his release from prison. Back at work, Pete befriends local gangster Mr. Eddy and is slowly drawn into an affair with his lover Alice (who, wouldn't you know it, looks just like Renee). Is Pete destined to make the same mistakes as Fred or can he change his cosmic lot in life once and for all? Come to think of it, are Fred and Pete the same person? Is the Renee/Alice persona a spirit determined to haunt this one soul throughout all of time? Is any of this happening outside of Fred's mind? And what's the deal with the Mystery Man?

Director David Lynch has never been interested in merely telling a straightforward story and tends to lose his way when asked to; just check out Dune, the second season of Twin Peaks or it's film follow-up if you doubt that. Instead, he masterfully creates worlds in which explanation and reason exist just outside our peripheral vision. Like a great painter, his aim is to invoke pure emotion and then let the viewer interpret the work from there. I don't know what love is but, after listening to This Mortal Coil perform Song to the Siren over a key scene at the end of this film, I know what it sounds like. When was the last time a filmmaker gave such a gift?

One of the pleasures of the film is watching elements from Fred's world slowly creep into Pete's: A sax solo on the radio gives Pete a crippling headache, minor characters from one pop up in the other and mention the same locations, Mr. Eddy's offering of videotapes. And no discussion of this film would be complete without mention of the character referred to only as the Mystery Man (Robert Blake, eyebrow-less and in white Kabuki makeup). His first meeting with Fred early in the film is eerie, mysterious and refreshingly silly all at the same time. It's the high point of the film and instantly one of Lynch's best scenes to date.

This film's production values are all excellent. Gone are the cringe-inducing elements from Blue Velvet and Fire Walk with Me that us fans had such trouble defending him from. In fact, one would be hard pressed to label anything in this film gratuitous or exploitative and the restraint on display here suits Mr. Lynch just fine. Sure, there's still the occasional death by coffee table and throat slashing now and then but there's nothing here that isn't appropriate to the milieu. Considering how difficult the material is, all of the actors do excellent jobs. Specifically Gary Busey and Lucy Butler as Pete's parents, who manage to be clueless without being annoying, and Robert Loggia's Mr. Eddy, who manages to be monstrous without making the same over-the-top mistakes Dennis Hopper made in Blue Velvet. Sound-wise, Lynch continues to experiment and evolve. Yes, Angelo Badalamenti's beautifully lilting melodies can still be heard here and there but the majority of the soundtrack consists of Goth and Industrial with the occasional classic (Lou Reed's This Magic Moment) thrown in for good measure. One only has to listen to a few moments of the song over the opening credits (David Bowie's I'm Deranged) to get an idea of what exactly they're in for.

And as for the Fred-to-Pete transformation that has so many people crying foul: A psychogenic fugue is a mental condition in which a person completely forgets his past identity and replaces it with a brand new one. Also, in musical terms, a fugue is a piece that starts off one way, takes off in another direction and then returns back to it's original form. You figure it out...