First, let's get the black and white choice out of the way; it obviously was brilliant. The textured, earthy context is vital as a sort of expository casing for the story. Color would've all but obliterated the characters; they'd have been absorbed by their surroundings, rather than growing out of them, as they do. Monochrome manages to supply their backstories in a completely visual, pervasive manner. It's the sort of choice that prompted me to mention after I'd seen the trailer, Behind the Scenes, and the other clips that it reminded me of Cassavetes, Falk and Gazzara during their early work together: filmmaking with an emphasis on the film. The story, I think, treads a rather gracefully drawn line through rough-edged ironic humor, frustration, almost accidental cruelty, the wish for some kind of tenderness or simple meaning, and the nearly abandoned hopes for love. These people have lost their direction, but they still seem to think there's a path to find. That seems to emerge for each of the characters at various moments, and to be guided by different impulses. It's very intriguing that, despite the serious flaws in Eddie Jemison's lead character Ditch, the only really reprehensible of the four men is Art, the guy Ditch supposedly has wronged. The characters all are thoroughly nuanced and intricate; they bring a compelling urgency to a set of potentially mundane situations. Intriguing as they are, though, they're only one part of the film's subtle fabric.
Roughness and cruelty among the four central characters masks a deeply vulnerable core that becomes most evident in Ditch and his pal Gat. The two guys only can express their fears and insecurities to each other, not because of some illusory macho "bonding," but because of their lifelong knowledge of each other; they have no secrets, no need to protect themselves. It's not a "buddy flick;" it's a film about the fragility of humanity and fate of love in a world that marginalizes hope. Gat shows that, instead, the knowledge fosters a visceral, instinctive drive to protect each other, as well as themselves. Both Jemison as Ditch and David Jensen as Gat pick up the excellent script and carry it into completely believable and recognizable characters. Anyone used to Jemison's more frequent comic roles will be gripped by the troubled, incendiary, self-destructive character that he brings to life in Ditch. Anyone who's been watching him closely, however, will see this as the realization of his skill in treading the edge between comic and desperate. Here, he shows serious chops and takes a walk on the bleak side. In the process, he shows his considerable range, bringing in the comic to heighten Ditch's underlying rage and desperation. As his partner Gat, Jensen brings together a personal despondency, lingering optimism, a bruised sweetness, and a startling turn for rage. They both believe they're worthless, but manage to hold each other upright. To a point.
All of the male characters' defensive reactions to their haunting sense of inadequacy reach a destructive peak in Ditch and Gat's inability to connect meaningfully with their wives, with women in general. The essential fear of rejection, of discovery, that has shadowed their lives has made them fearful of those they need the most. Ironically, it's those fears that ultimately contaminate and destroy the relationships that mean the most to them. This film is filled with irony, all of it subtle and all of it crucial to the narrative; even the title carries a multi-level, pivotal irony.
Thankfully, the guy-driven narrative doesn't strand or omit female characters, though the script rather elegantly sets up that expectation before pulling the rug. Both women stand on their own as deceptively nuanced personalities. In her brief appearances as Ditch's sister Evie, Andrea Frankle's restrained but focused portrayal suggests a backstory worth telling and, most importantly, her attraction to the shop-worn Gat becomes perfectly reasonable. But it's Laura Lamson's embodiment of Ditch's wife, Mary, that rounds out the film's characters with a multi-textured rendering that spins from tragic naiveté to fragility, then surprises with an eruption of assertiveness and acuity, demonstrating Mary's depth and complexity, shifting her from pathetic to almost majestically tragic. The effect is enhanced by Lamson's transitions, razor sharp, but so smooth that they're believable even as they catch the viewer off guard. In fairness, all of the characters develop surprising depth; there's just not enough room here. Even the worst of the lot, the somewhat loathsome Arthur, neatly articulated by Joe Chrest, may not be excusable, but his pointless deceitfulness, his almost cheerful underhandedness, still subtly conveys the disappointment and sense of inadequacy that afflicts them all. And it must be said that Wayne Pére's sensitive depiction of the damaged Leon shows him as both tender and potentially dangerous.
All of this derives from an intricate, multifaceted script, of course, though it's difficult to see the division between that, the performances, and the strong, insightful direction. This could be lots longer; there's more to say. In the end, I have to return to the riff on Cassavetes, Falk, and Gazzara. That seems a bit effete, perhaps, but not when it produces this sort of harsh, delicate, angry, almost tender filmmaking.
Roughness and cruelty among the four central characters masks a deeply vulnerable core that becomes most evident in Ditch and his pal Gat. The two guys only can express their fears and insecurities to each other, not because of some illusory macho "bonding," but because of their lifelong knowledge of each other; they have no secrets, no need to protect themselves. It's not a "buddy flick;" it's a film about the fragility of humanity and fate of love in a world that marginalizes hope. Gat shows that, instead, the knowledge fosters a visceral, instinctive drive to protect each other, as well as themselves. Both Jemison as Ditch and David Jensen as Gat pick up the excellent script and carry it into completely believable and recognizable characters. Anyone used to Jemison's more frequent comic roles will be gripped by the troubled, incendiary, self-destructive character that he brings to life in Ditch. Anyone who's been watching him closely, however, will see this as the realization of his skill in treading the edge between comic and desperate. Here, he shows serious chops and takes a walk on the bleak side. In the process, he shows his considerable range, bringing in the comic to heighten Ditch's underlying rage and desperation. As his partner Gat, Jensen brings together a personal despondency, lingering optimism, a bruised sweetness, and a startling turn for rage. They both believe they're worthless, but manage to hold each other upright. To a point.
All of the male characters' defensive reactions to their haunting sense of inadequacy reach a destructive peak in Ditch and Gat's inability to connect meaningfully with their wives, with women in general. The essential fear of rejection, of discovery, that has shadowed their lives has made them fearful of those they need the most. Ironically, it's those fears that ultimately contaminate and destroy the relationships that mean the most to them. This film is filled with irony, all of it subtle and all of it crucial to the narrative; even the title carries a multi-level, pivotal irony.
Thankfully, the guy-driven narrative doesn't strand or omit female characters, though the script rather elegantly sets up that expectation before pulling the rug. Both women stand on their own as deceptively nuanced personalities. In her brief appearances as Ditch's sister Evie, Andrea Frankle's restrained but focused portrayal suggests a backstory worth telling and, most importantly, her attraction to the shop-worn Gat becomes perfectly reasonable. But it's Laura Lamson's embodiment of Ditch's wife, Mary, that rounds out the film's characters with a multi-textured rendering that spins from tragic naiveté to fragility, then surprises with an eruption of assertiveness and acuity, demonstrating Mary's depth and complexity, shifting her from pathetic to almost majestically tragic. The effect is enhanced by Lamson's transitions, razor sharp, but so smooth that they're believable even as they catch the viewer off guard. In fairness, all of the characters develop surprising depth; there's just not enough room here. Even the worst of the lot, the somewhat loathsome Arthur, neatly articulated by Joe Chrest, may not be excusable, but his pointless deceitfulness, his almost cheerful underhandedness, still subtly conveys the disappointment and sense of inadequacy that afflicts them all. And it must be said that Wayne Pére's sensitive depiction of the damaged Leon shows him as both tender and potentially dangerous.
All of this derives from an intricate, multifaceted script, of course, though it's difficult to see the division between that, the performances, and the strong, insightful direction. This could be lots longer; there's more to say. In the end, I have to return to the riff on Cassavetes, Falk, and Gazzara. That seems a bit effete, perhaps, but not when it produces this sort of harsh, delicate, angry, almost tender filmmaking.