December 8, 2004

Closer

Closer is the kind of small, "edgy" film that Hollywood actors make during downtime from their big projects so they can score some indie credibility. Julia Roberts signed on for this movie, which cost $25 million, right after she made Mona Lisa Smile, which earned her a $25 million paycheck. While this strategy sometimes works out (Jim Carrey was at his best in Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind and Sly Stallone was pretty compelling in Cop Land), it usually results in dismal failure. Such is the case with Closer, a waste of film stock that equates raunch with honesty and vastly overestimates its audience's desire to see thoroughly unlikable characters stabbing each other in the back in scene after scene for close to two hours.

I was going to write a plot synopsis, but I already did: it consists entirely of "thoroughly unlikable characters stabbing each other in the back in scene after scene for close to two hours." That's it. Since it's based on an award-winning play (it won a 1997 London Critics Circle Theatre Award) and stars award-winning actors (Roberts, Jude Law, Clive Owen and Natalie Portman) and is directed by an award-winning director (Mike Nichols, taking a dive after the awe-inspiring Angels In America), I suppose everyone thought that the threadbare plot would add to the intensity and emotional brutality of its characters and performances. Instead, it adds up to Closer becoming the most unpleasant, monotonous bore of a movie I've seen in years. If you don't believe me and want to experience it for yourself, I'll take an extra step to help you save your money; here's every scene:

PERSON 1: You f***ed [him/her], didn't you?!

PERSON 2: Yes, I'm sorry, I love [him/her]. You're wonderful, it's just... I can't control who I love.

PERSON 1: You miserable f***ing s***bag! I f***ing hate you! What, I didn't [random sexual act/position] enough?! F***ing f*** f***! I'm going to the [strip club/airport/work].

By the time the star of Runaway Bride starts with a metaphorical comparison of the tastes of Law's and Owen's semen ("It's like yours, but sweeter"), it's clear that Closer's cheap attempts at shock and provocation are really just pathetic. Dropping the F bomb in a movie hasn't been daring or risky for 65 years.

What is shocking about Closer is that Nichols, a truly brilliant filmmaker who is in his fifth decade of making great movies, would make such a pile of garbage. Some of its failures aren't surprising, such as the 73-year-old Nichols being ill-equipped for sexually explicit material; I don't know about you, but I don't think my grandpa would make a very convincing drama about sex-starved yuppies in London. But how could this man, the actors' director who emerged from Lee Strasberg's prestigious Actors' Studio to win dozens of Oscars, Tonys and Emmys, make a film where every note rings false? "A movie is like a person," he once said, "either you trust it or you don't." I don't trust a second of this movie. The acting is laughably bad (with the notable exception of Clive Owen, who does what he can). Jude Law has never been worse, inexplicably alternating between weasel, sad sack and self-parody, and Natalie Portman tries to be enigmatic by playing her character as a completely different person in every scene. There's no interesting dialogue, and the only musical accompaniment is a whiny Damien Rice song that pops up during the opening and closing credits.

And let us not forget that this has all been done in a good movie before. Neil LaBute's Your Friends And Neighbors was a stark story of amoral couples swapping partners shot with a minimalistic style and no music, but it had entertaining characters, witty dialogue and fantastic actors. Closer has a bunch of miscast movie stars in indie drag playing characters no one gives a damn about saying the same crap over and over again. It's a perfect example of what happens when Hollywood starts thinking it's important.