Paradise
lost
Alexander
Payne is, arguably, the modern poet of the battered male psyche (see
Matthew Broderick in Election, 1999; Jack Nicholson in About
Schmidt, 2002; Paul Giamatti in Sideways, 2004). If he
succeeds at articulating the triumphs and sorrows of this particular
sub-species of homo sapiens, that's because he's totally inside his
main male characters' heads, knows their considerable flaws and
occasional virtues inside and out; if he fails that's possibly
because said psyche isn't exactly what you'd call limitlessly
profound, bountifully intricate territory for thorough excavation; at
a certain point you're going to hit rock bottom.
Better
Payne than his more commercially successful contemporary, Judd
Apatow; the latter rakes in all the bucks because he makes
comfortable comedies, where the flawed male is humiliated then
vindicated, and along the way his hottest fantasies are fulfilled to
overflowing (see Knocked Up (2007), where a total loser manages
to impregnate a totally hot chick and no one in the audience cries
“Foul!” (well I did, but the people around shushed me down)).
Payne lives up to his surname; there's a knotty integrity to his
selfishness, an agonized, self-conscious honesty to his self-regard;
if he knows his males far more thoroughly than his females, if he is
able to dissect them more precisely, he does acknowledge this slant
in his scripts, and gives the males no lasting advantage over the
fairer sex. Equal opportunity suffering, with more opportunity to
laugh at the men than the women.
To
that list of memorably muddled men add George Clooney's Matt King,
great grandson of Princess Kekipi and her 'haole' husband Edward
King, who in turn was the last direct descendant of King Kamehameha.
King sits on a sizable legacy: twenty-five thousand acres of prime
coastal land that he co-owns with his cousins, a varied and
considerably grizzled shorts-and-sandals group, the most vivid of
which is his cousin Hugh (Beau Bridges toasted to a perfectly caramel
George Hamilton tan, with a perfectly crispy performance to match).
Matt can't focus on the impending sale, despite all the money it
promises to deliver: his wife has had a boating accident and lies
vegetating at the hospital (the film's opening is remarkably spooky:
slow-motion footage of a woman on waterskis, flying past the
camera--we eventually realize this must have been Matt's wife
Elizabeth, just moments before her accident). Matt, the
self-described 'backup parent,' has to step up and take charge of his
two daughters, chubby Scottie (Amara Miller), and teenaged Alexandra
(Shailene Woodley). Matt struggles to control them, to establish his
patriarchal prerogative; out of frustration Alexandra drops a social,
psychological and narrative bomb: mommy had been seeing someone when
she died.
Matt
trying to sell his legacy and looking to confront his wife's lover
are the twin engines that drive this film's narrative, but they're
not what the film's really about, I think. This is about people
interacting with each other, establishing territories, boundaries,
lines of cooperation and communication, resolving the
unresolvable--with compromise, cash, and the occasional sudden right
hook. Matt has never handled Scottie before; what is he to do when
Scottie throws a tantrum? Likewise, Alexandra has probably never
spent such an extended amount of time with her family before--to cope
she brings along her boyfriend Sid (Nick Krause), an unstoppably
tactless lout. You can see trouble brewing a mile off--or can you?
Turns out Alexandra can be both hindrance and help, and Sid has his
moments (fleeting and rare, and yet and yet) of insight. Matthew
Lillard as Brian Speer, the real estate agent that doubles as
Elizabeth's lover, sounds like a self-satisfied boor until Matt
throws the man's infidelity at his face; suddenly he's a father
pleading pathetically for the sanctity of family (his family, of course, not
Matt's). Toss in Robert Forster as Elizabeth's irascible
father--every time he sees Matt he can't help but put his son-in-law
down, and his very presence is irritating until you realize what all
that anger really is: a way of expressing the pain he feels at losing
a beloved daughter.
It's
all fine performances--no, it's all finely drawn characters, crawling
all over this verdant chunk of volcanic rock most people would deem
paradise. We see the paradise (the film is capably lensed by Phedon
Papamichael (he shot W. for Oliver Stone, and came up with the
beautifully modulated, near-Mediterranean sunlight for Payne's Sideways): possibly the most memorable shot in the entire film
is when Payne pans from the family on foot walking downhill to the
wide crescent of lush wild grass surrounding an azure bay that is the
family property. The challenge is to convince us that despite all
that natural beauty Matt and his family are still capable of being
unhappy, still capable of seeking (and eventually deserving) some
measure of peace. I think Payne succeeds, at that.
First published on Businessworld, 2.16.12
First published on Businessworld, 2.16.12