Helen (Ally Sheedy) has it all: a successful career as a screenwriter, great house near Hollywood and, at the moment, a boyfriend named Keanu. She’s also got a laceratingly low opinion of the world, including her woeful sister Joy (Shirley Henderson), who is finally driven to ask, in her mousy manner, why Helen makes fun of her. That cues an explosion of rancor and self-pity. “Make fun?” Helen says, spitting the words like nails. “I try, Joy, I really do. But you and Keanu and everyone thinks I mock them — that I’m cruel and condescending — that I have no heart.” She goes just a little teary. “And it’s hard. It’s really hard.”
It’s typical of Todd Solondz that, in his new Life During Wartime, he should give voice to a charge often made against his films — that they mock the hapless creatures he puts on the screen — and that he puts what might be his defense into the mouth of the movie’s least sympathetic character.
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That’s saying something, considering that Solondz’s other lost souls here include: Joy, a counselor for ex-cons, who falls disastrously in love with her clients; her husband Allen (Michael K. Williams), a semi-reformed obscene phone-caller who now does it “Just a little — on Sundays”; her previous beau Andy (Paul Reubens), a suicide who still haunts, courts and abuses her from beyond the grave; Joy’s other sister Trish (Alison Janney), who has moved from New Jersey to Miami to escape a disastrous marriage; Trish’s ex-husband Bill (Ciarin Hinds), a convicted pedophile, whom Trish keeps saying is dead, but who’s just been released from prison; their college-age son Billy (Cliff Marquette), who wishes his dad really were dead; their 12-year-old, Timmy (Dylan Riley Snyder), approaching his bar mitzvah and tormented with issues of guilt and forgiveness; and their daughter Chloe (Emma Hinz), who, though just a child, already has mastered the family’s depressive world view. At the dinner table she says, “Mommy, the baby carrots — they’re looking so sad.”
But Helen is the lowest of the bunch: the one Life During Wartime character in whom Solondz doesn’t seem emotionally invested. A mainstream screenwriter and a smoker (thus automatically forfeiting the indie audiences rooting interest), she’s also a shrill scold who has fooled herself into believing she’s a fearless truth-teller. That last part is the standard rap on Solondz films: Welcome to the Dollhouse, Happiness, Storytelling, Palindromes and this one, which is a kind of sequel to Happiness. Helen and, by plausible extension, her creator feel pain on being told how easily inflicting pain comes to them. In her apologia, Helen might be paraphrasing Shylock: “When I prick you, do I not bleed?”
Even critics who admire the writer-director feel the need to address the discomfort level of his prickly oeuvre — especially the 1998 Happiness, at whose heart was the relationship of an 11-year-old boy and his father, who had sexually abused some of the boys’ classmates. Are Solondz’s pictures comedies or dramas? Is his characters’ misery (the one thing they have in common) to be seen as heartache or ridiculous self-absorption? Put it another way: Does Solondz hate his subjects?
You may as well ask if Richard Avedon and Francis Bacon hated theirs. The people in their photographs and portraits certainly don’t look very nice. Solondz too paints his subjects warts and all — maybe warts only. But I think he’s fascinated by their crimes, great or small, and touched by their attempts to rationalize or conquer them, to live inside that creepy place. If we can crawl in, too, that’s fine. But Solondz won’t push a dogmatic line. I think he wants the viewer to say: Who are these awful people and why do I care about them?
Life During Wartime, which had its world premiere at last September’s Venice Film Festival and is now opening in New York and Los Angeles, contains many of the same characters who were in Happiness, though all the roles are taken by different actors. Allen, played in Happiness by Philip Seymour Hoffman, is now African-American (Williams was the gay stick-up man Omar Little on HBO’s The Wire). Joy’s ex-beau Andy, originally Jon Lovitz, is now Paul (Pee-wee Herman) Reubens, though he’s just as unpredictable: apologizing one moment (“I’m sorry I said you were s–t and I was champagne”), threatening the next (“Why did I kill myself? I should have killed you!”). Some of the characters have aged more than others; and though the sisters Joy, Trish and Helen come from an explicitly Jewish family, they’ve been played by actresses who radiate a very gentile aura. That suits Solondz’s tendency for eccentric casting. In the 2004 Palindromes, the role of a 12-year-old white girl was played by 10 different actors of different ages, sexes and races.
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As in Happiness, the focal family situation involves Bill, Trish and their kids. Bill, just released from prison, wants to reconnect with his sons to see if they’re cursed with his proclivities. Trish, relocating to Florida with her two younger kids, has fallen in love with the stolid Harvey (Michael Lerner), whose need to keep secrets is one of the things she finds most attractive about him. (He: “I can’t talk about my sex life.” She: “I can’t talk about mine either.” He: “There’s so much I don’t understand.” She: “Sometimes it’s better not to understand.”) She obviously thinks that of Timmy, to whom she lied about Bill. “I wanted you to grow up free and happy,” she gently explains, “as if he were dead.” Their conversations are as taught and fraught as any mother-son chats, with the added toxicity of Bill’s criminal disease. Trish tells Timmy that if any man ever touches him, even by accident, “You scream.”
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To clue you into the squirmy-eloquent, sad-funny tone of a Solondz film, here’s a two-minute exchange, in a hotel cocktail lounge, between two strangers sizing each other up and wondering whether to spend the night together. The woman is Jacqueline — Charlotte Rampling, the great Anglo-vixen from 45 years of European films, now splendidly weathered, still in full command of her sexual authority — and the man is Bill. Read the dialogue the way it is delivered, drily, thoughtfully, as the dialogue of two specters who might have just met in an antechamber of Hell:
Jacqueline: Mind if I join you?
Bill: Please.
Jacqueline: Forgive me — please tell me you’re straight.
Bill: I am.
Jacqueline: Oh, thank God. (Sips her drink.) So what are you doing here all alone?
Bill: Work.
Jacqueline: You like your work?
Bill: It pays.
Jacqueline: Good. Then we don’t have to talk about it.
Bill: Are you alone?
Jacqueline: Married. Alone. The same thing.
Bill: No. Alone is alone.
Jacqueline: I’m good at reading people, y’ know.
Bill: What do you read now?
Jacqueline: Well, I see a man. And he’s alone. And he’s straight. That’s good enough for me.
Bill: You are good.
Jacqueline: My husband was a fag.
Bill: Must have been hard.
Jacqueline: Only man I ever loved.
Bill: What happened to him?
Jacqueline: Stove.
Bill: Any kids?
Jacqueline: Not anymore. Just a pack of wolves. And they’re out for blood.
Bill: How so?
Jacqueline: They’ve decided I’m the villain — I’m a monster
Bill: Why do they think that?
Jacqueline: ‘Cause I am a monster.
Bill: People can’t help it if they’re monsters.
Jacqueline: They can’t be forgiven either.
Bill: Have you asked for forgiveness?
Jacqueline: I’m not a fool. If I were them, I wouldn’t forgive me either. In my family, there are only winners and losers.
Bill: And only losers ask for forgiveness…
Jacqueline: Only losers expect to get it.
Forgive and forget: that’s the theme of Life During Wartime, which is haunted by the ghosts of Happiness. Billy, meeting his father years after he disappeared, says of his mother, “She told everybody you were dead,” and Bill glumly replies, “Well, she was right.” His son says, “It’s good you were dead”; his sense of abandonment from his loving, twisted father has turned to rancor. But Timmy, now the age Billy was in the first film, wants to connect with Bill. At the end, he cries out, “I don’t care about freedom and democracy. I just want my father.” As he speaks, Bill’s image briefly materializes on the other side of the street, and vanishes.
John Irving said that, in writing a novel, he tried to create the nicest people, then imagine the most awful things that could happen to them. Solondz dreams up people who do awful things, then imagines what it’s like to be them. He doesn’t want to judge his characters; he needs to understand them. And because he portrays them with such boldness and acuity — daring the viewer to laugh at them and, a bigger challenge, to find some residue of beauty in the beasts — he is the best argument for why we need indie movies. His films will never be mainstream fare; audiences who wander into the theater may well find them derisive, needlessly shocking, perhaps unforgivable. But I’d call them, and especially Life During Wartime, unforgettable.
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