dark comedy

Choke

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(USA 2008)

“We let the world tell us whether we’re saints or sex addicts. Sane or insane. Heroes or victims. Whether we’re good mothers, or loving sons. But we can decide for ourselves. As a certain wise fugitive once told me, sometimes it’s not important which way you jump—just that you jump.”

—Victor Mancini

I’m not sure why more Chuck Palahniuk novels haven’t been made into movies—his style might not be for everyone, but his stories and characters certainly lend themselves to film. Easily. As it stands, two of his novels have been adapted for the screen: Fight Club, which most probably know because of its stars (Brad Pitt, Edward Norton, Helena Bonham Carter, even Meat Loaf) and director (David Fincher); and Choke, which is relatively unknown—likely because it’s a much lower key (and lower budget) project. I recently learned that Palahniuk has something new coming out—a coloring book called Bait—and it got me thinking about him. On a rainy morning, I downloaded Choke, which I saw one time during its short original theatrical run almost exactly eight years ago. I was thrilled when it finally came out then, and I wanted to see how it reads now. Overall, the film works despite some minor bugs, but the story is still more satisfying as a novel.

Director and screenwriter Clark Gregg—who also has a minor role in Choke—is faithful to the book. Victor Mancini (Sam Rockwell) is a despicable mess. A medical school dropout, he’s a sex addict who hooks up with pretty much anyone who will have him. Possibly his most disturbing partner is Nico (Paz De La Huerta), a fellow member of his sex addiction support group, who disappears from meetings with him to have filthy (and in this film, very graphic) rest room sex down the hall. Victor supports himself as a tour guide of sorts in a colonial-themed park by day and faking choking episodes at restaurants by night. Long ago, he devised an elaborate scam to elicit pity—and money—from the people who save him. He uses the funds to finance his mother, Ida’s (Anjelica Huston), residency at a Catholic mental hospital, where she’s suffering from a form of dimentia and dying. Her doctor, Paige (Kelly Macdonald), has a crazy plan that might save her—if only Victor wasn’t falling for Paige.

The book is usually better than the movie, and Choke is no exception. Like all of Palahniuk’s novels, there’s a lot going on. Gregg makes an artistic choice to emphasize the subplot involving Victor’s mother and their relationship, apparently to unpeel Victor’s many layers. It’s a good idea, but it ends up downplaying other plot elements (and sometimes omitting plot developments)—like the choking scenes, some of the sex addiction, and things at work—and as a result they seem superfluous in the film. Victor comes off as hollow, more case study than character. The casting is really good, though—Brad William Henke is totally likeble as affable chronic masturbator Denny, Gillian Jacobs is dippy smart as stripper Cherry Daquiri, and Heather Burns is wonderfully cunty as Gwen, Victor’s online hookup with the rape fantasy and the silk bedspread. Actually, these three are along the lines of what I pictured when I read the book. Joel Grey makes an odd but well placed appearance as a support group leader. I love that Gregg keeps Victor in a pathetic light and toys with the theme of salvation, and I’m relieved that he doesn’t change the ending and save anyone. The great thing about Palahniuk is that he’s not sentimental, which Gregg honors.

I’ve heard through the years that many of Palahniuk’s books are being adapted for film (or in one case, television): Invisible Monsters (http://www.slashfilm.com/director-hired-chuck-palahniuks-invisible-monsters/), Rant (http://www.slashfilm.com/james-franco-options-chuck-palahniuk-rant-movie/), Survivor (http://collider.com/chuck-palahniuk-survivor-tv-series-jim-uhls/), Haunted (http://www.joblo.com/movie-news/financing-has-finally-come-through-for-the-adaptation-of-chuck-palahniuks-haunted), Snuff (http://www.moviefone.com/2011/02/09/chuck-palahniuk-snuff-film/), and Lullaby (http://chuckpalahniuk.net/news/lullaby-kickstarter-campaign-reaches-surpasses-its-goal). So far, none have come to fruition, so I’ll believe it when I see it. If nine years (the length between Fight Club and Choke) is an indicator, then next year we should see something—my guess is Lullaby.

92 minutes
Rated R

(Home via iTunes) B

My Blind Brother

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(USA 2016)

Robbie (Adam Scott) and Bill (Nick Kroll) are brothers. Robbie is an overachieving athlete—attractive, admired, and blind. He’s also kind of a dick in private. Bill dutifully assists Robbie with his athletic endeavors, holding a string to guide him as he runs marathons and rowing in front of him with a blowhorn as he swims. Admittedly lazy, Bill fantasizes about being disabled and having everyone wait on him while he watches TV all day.

WARNING: Potential spoilers ahead!

One night while their parents are fawning over Robbie after a race, Bill goes out by himself for a drink at a local bar where unbeknownst to him a memorial is being held for a guy who was killed when a bus hit him. Bill meets Rose (Jenny Slate), who’s crying because she feels guilty about it—she dumped him right before it happened. They introduce themselves: she’s a “superficial narcissist” and he’s “lazy and judgmental.” They talk, and she tells him she wants to be a better person—maybe helping baby elephants in Africa or something. Rose ends up going home with Bill. In a very uncomfortable scene, she extricates herself from his room and takes off the next morning, roughly declining Bill’s request for her phone number.

Soon after, Robbie hooks up with a volunteer to help him with swimming, something Bill doesn’t want to do. Turns out, there’s a spark between Robbie and this volunteer—who Bill discovers is Rose.

Writer and director Sophie Goodhart does a capable job on both fronts, even if My Blind Brother takes a little while to get its stride and feels a bit like a TV show. The story moves steadily once it gets going, though the ending is predictable—including its reveal of how Robbie lost his sight. There are more than a few genuinely funny moments here. I love that all of the characters are detestable, or at least nothing to aspire to, for one reason or another—even Robbie, who from an outside perspective seems inspirational with his fundraising through athletics. It doesn’t take long to see that he’s lame, right down to the same flimsy joke about looking beautiful that he repeats to every woman (because he’s blind and can’t see, get it?). Slate does neurotic frazzled really well. Charlie Hewson as blind stoner GT and Zoe Kazan as Rose’s quick and loyal but cynical roommate Francie both add a breath of fresh air. Filmed in and around the West Side of Cleveland, Ohio—where I grew up—I immediately noticed exterior shots in Tremont, Lakewood, and I’m pretty sure Rocky River.

85 minutes
Rated R

(Facets) C+

London Road

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(UK 2015)

“Everyone is very, very nervous. Um. And very unsure of everything, basically.”

—The Cast

“British,” “murder,” “mystery,” “thriller,” “comedy,” and “musical” are words that might sound dubious when used together to describe the same work. These elements, though, gel nicely in the amusingly quirky London Road, Rufus Norris’s adaptation of Adam Cork and Alecky Blythe’s musical theatre revolving around Steve Wright, the notorious Suffolk Strangler a.k.a. Ipswich Ripper.

The subject matter of London Road certainly isn’t anything to sing about: Wright moved to a modest working class neighborhood in Ipswich for ten weeks and killed five prostitutes during Autumn 2006. The bodies started showing up, casting paranoia over the small town. Wright was arrested just before Christmas, stressing out his neighbors on London Road, where the murders occurred in his house.

London Road could accurately be called an anatomy of a community directly affected by a macabre event, as the story is not really about Wright but rather his spooked neighbors. Based on actual interviews, the story traces their reactions to the murders and the fact that they occurred so close to home. Particularly hitting is the impact of the small street’s invasion by the police and the media on the various residents’ daily lives. Flowers bring them to their ultimate redemption.

London Road features Olivia Colman, Anita Dobson, Kate Fleetwood, Nick Holder, Paul Thornley, Michael Shaeffer, and Tom Hardy, whom I didn’t even recognize in his small role as a cab driver. Norris respects the characters’ dignity, letting them each have their own voice without putting them in a negative, unsophisticated light. The mood is a bit schizo, going from tense to darkly comic before erupting into song and choreographed numbers. The songs, by the way, are droll and clever, incorporating verbal ticks into the rhythm. They’re catchy, too—I’m still singing one of them two days later. I loved one scene in which a newscaster (Shaeffer) struggles in song to explain how forensics identified Wright through DNA in his semen, a word he can’t use during daytime TV—who knew the Brits have prudish broadcasting rules just like we Americans do?

Overall, London Road is an interesting experience unlike any other film I’ve seen lately. I laughed, I was intrigued, and the music pulled me in.

91 minutes
Not rated

(Facets) B-

http://ntlive.nationaltheatre.org.uk/productions/ntlout11-london-road-film

Party Monster

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(USA 2003)

“Money. Success. Fame. Glamor.”

—Michael

“Clubbing” in the late ’80s and early ’90s was about having fun, being seen, getting some attention when you could, and simply being fabulous. I was already past my clubbing days (or nights) and into raves when I read something about the horrific murder and dismemberment of a club kid in New York City in 1996. It hit home, albeit in a small way: not a club kid myself, some of my friends had been—or at least they were club kid lite—and I was familiar with the scene, which wasn’t violent. I followed the story for a little while but didn’t keep up to see what eventually happened—I was busy doing other stuff, like getting my shit together to go to law school and move somewhere else. The incident wasn’t front page news. A few years later, a friend gave me a copy of Disco Bloodbath by James St. James. I was floored to discover that it chronicled the story I started to follow. I absolutely loved the book—even with a drug fueled murder at its climax, it’s an irresistible mix of club queen adventures, flip observations, dish, dirt, and even a dash of nostalgia. Plus, it’s well written. I devoured it over a few days on the beach in Puerto Vallarta.

Party Monster is Fenton Bailey and Randy Barbato’s film adaptation of St. James’s memoir. They take some liberties—they aren’t totally by the book and some of the music isn’t quite right—but they still manage to brilliantly capture the look and feel of those days and that scene. The cast members, known and unknown, are excellent: Seth Green, Macaulay Culkin, Dylan McDermott, Wilmer Valderrama, Wilson Cruz, Justin Hagan, Chloë Sevigny, even Marilyn Manson. John Stamos makes a cameo as a talk show host with actual club kids, including Amanda Lepore, Richie Rich, and Walt Paper (who oddly enough I knew briefly in undergrad). Green and Culkin have a natural chemistry as friends and foes—one of my favorite scenes is James (Green) showing Michael (Culkin) how to work a room at a Dunkin Donuts knockoff. The thing I love about the movie is how fun this world is—parties, costumes, Disco 2000, ordering burgers for 300 clubgoers at a fast food chain, piling into the back of a semi with a guy in a chicken suit, even doing drugs. The genius of the film is that, like the book, it makes me want to be a part of this world despite its flaws and the tragic ending.

98 minutes
Rated R

(Home via iTunes) B

Play It Again, Sam

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(USA 1972)

“It’s from Casablanca. I’ve waited my whole life to say it!”

—Allan

Play It Again, Sam is a rare Woody Allen film that he wrote and starred in but did not direct; it’s only his second such screenplay (http://www.ibtimes.com/8-films-woody-allen-acted-didnt-direct-video-1386755). Herbert Ross directed this film adaption of Allen’s play of the same name. Interestingly, it’s set in San Francisco, not New York or Los Angeles.

Allan Felix (Allen) is a neurotic film critic whose flaky wife (Susan Anspach) just left him. All on his own in their small apartment crammed with his film memorabilia, he’s understandably out of sorts and depressed; being Woody Allen, though, it’s a hundred times worse than anyone else, which makes it funny. His friends Dick (Tony Roberts) and Linda (Diane Keaton), a married couple, encourage him to meet new women, even going so far as setting him up on a date (Jennifer Salt). It’s not working because, well, his neurotic tendencies undermine his efforts—breaking record albums, spilling drinks, knocking down furniture, getting beat up. Not even the ghost of Humphrey Bogart (Jerry Lacy) popping up here and there to offer advice on babes helps. Allan crosses a line when he falls for Linda—and Dick catches a whiff of something going on.

Play It Again, Sam is typical Woody Allen—need I say more? He’s relatably cringeworthy, which is his gift. I loved Linda’s “I love dick” speech and Allen’s date with hot redhead Jennifer (Viva). All the references to Casablanca are fun. The story is a bit predictable, but the characters here keep the film enjoyable. So do the situations, which are just silly enough to remain believable without going too far.

83 minutes
Rated PG

(MoviePlex) B

Harold and Maude

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(USA 1971)

“And if you want live high, live high;
And if you want to live low, live low;
Cuz there’s a million ways to go, you know that there are.”

—Cat Stevens (Yusuf Islam), “If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out”

 

“Dinner at eight, Harold. And do try and be a little more vivacious.”

—Mrs. Chasen (Harold’s mother)

 

“I feel that much of the world’s sorrow comes from people who are this, yet allow themselves to be treated as that.”

—Maude

For a double date night, we caught a screening of Harold and Maude at Chicago Tribune film critic Mark Caro’s series, “Is It Still Funny?” I was astonished to learn that this film was a box office bomb. Indeed, many respected critics, Roger Ebert and Vincent Canby among them, were not impressed when it originally came out (http://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/harold-and-maude-1972 ) (http://www.nytimes.com/movie/review?res=990CE7DF1138EF34BC4951DFB467838A669EDE ). Maybe its morbid overtones and absurdist deadpan black humor put people off. Maybe, like some of the authority figures in the film, the idea of the title characters “doing it” grossed them out. Maybe they couldn’t see beyond the obvious to get the point of the whole thing. Whatever it was, they clearly missed the beauty here. I don’t know, but Harold and Maude is one of my all-time favorites.

Young Harold Chasen (Bud Cort) is obsessed with death, probably because he’s not particularly invested in his own privileged life. He stages elaborate and often gruesome suicides to distress his wealthy, prim, socialite mother (Vivian Pickles). He drives a hearse. He hangs out in cemeteries. He crashes random funerals. One day, Harold crosses paths with Maude (Ruth Gordon), a crazy old lady he saw scarfing down an apple and sneezing loudly at a burial just a few days earlier. She approaches him in church during a funeral mass, and afterwards drives off in the priest’s car. Harold doesn’t know what to make of her. Maude is wacky and carefree with a rebellious streak. She lives in an old train car. She talks incessantly about life. She used to “liberate” canaries from pet shops, and now she enlists his assistance in rescuing a tree from a city sidewalk. Maude takes Harold on something of a roller coaster ride, going on adventures and showing him life’s many pleasures: art, music, dancing, flowers, just being alive. After he sabotages his mother’s attempts to find him a wife through a computer dating service, Harold decides to marry Maude. Their relationship culminates with a surprise party he throws for her 80th birthday—and a surprise she gives him.

Harold and Maude, which started out as a masters thesis that screenwriter Colin Higgins wrote at UCLA, easily could have slid into a mawkish mess. It doesn’t, though: it’s deceptively deep, and director Hal Ashby strikes an inimitable balance of sweet and weird. For one thing, he keeps things simple and lets them unfold naturally. Harold and Maude are both odd, but not in a forced or creepy way; they’re tender, relatable, and even adorable despite the fact that they make an unlikely match and cause discomfort to everyone around them. Their chemistry, like this entire film, has an easiness to it. Cat Stevens’s breezy soundtrack is the perfect accompaniment—I can’t imagine anyone else’s music here (Ashby originally approached Elton John: http://mentalfloss.com/article/69546/10-perfectly-paired-facts-about-harold-and-maude ). The story is interesting far beyond a formulaic romantic comedy; it maintains its edge with biting and macabre humor—fake suicides, dates gone horribly wrong, sessions with a psychiatrist, Harold’s fake murder of Maude, and that hilariously ghasly denouncement from a repressed priest (Eric Christmas). Pickles is flawlessly uptight and understated, and watching her is a delight in every single scene she has. Tom Skerritt (he’s the cop) in a small early role is a bonus. The tone and look both grow cheery as Maude pulls Harold out of his shell and he starts making his own choices.

This film has so many moments that still give me chills, not the least of which is Harold’s cry when he learns what Maude has done on her birthday. The hospital scene is wrenching for so many different reasons. The conversation in the daisy patch that pans out and turns into a graveyard (a la Arlington National Cemetery) and the momentary glimpse of the tattoo on Maude’s arm are subtle but jolting. Harold’s metamorphosis is the best part: standing on top of a cliff holding his banjo, he walks away playing “If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out.” It’s one of the few happy endings to a film that I truly love.

In 1997, the United States Library of Congress deemed Harold and Maude “culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant” and selected it for preservation in the National Film Registry (https://www.loc.gov/programs/national-film-preservation-board/film-registry/complete-national-film-registry-listing/).

91 minutes
Rated PG

(Music Box) A+

Multiple Maniacs

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(USA 1970)

“I can only take so much of this kind of talk, especially from common lesbians.”

—Bonnie

‘Cheap,’ ‘campy,’ and ‘scandalous’ are all words that accurately describe the work of John Waters—his early stuff, anyway. No one makes depravity as fun or funny as he does. Multiple Maniacs, his second feature-length film, is unmistakable Waters: it’s a twisted and revolting mess of antipathy, vitriol, sacrilege, and sleaze. Holy shit, Sugar Scrub—and I mean that literally!

Multiple Maniacs depicts the mental breakdown of Lady Divine (Divine), the proprietor and star of a traveling freak show called “The Cavalcade of Perversion.” The show’s “performers” literally drag people off the streets and under a tent, where they eat puke, take drugs, lick armpits, and perform other acts of deviance in front of them. For the grand finale, Lady Divine robs everyone in the audience at gunpoint. One day, she decides out of sheer boredom to murder them instead—much to the dismay of her lover, Mr. David (David Lochary). Lady Divine flees the scene of the crimes to hide out at the home of her hooker daughter, Cookie (Cookie Mueller), whose horny new boyfriend, Steve (Paul Swift), is crashing there. Mr. David takes off with his lover, Bonnie (Mary Vivian Pearce), who wants nothing more than to “perform acts” with him. A phone call from a bar owner (Edith Massey) takes Lady Divine down a debaucherous path of rape, lesbianism, blasphemy, betrayal, and more murder.

Like many members of my generation, demographic, and cultural persuasion, I discovered John Waters when I was a teenager. Everything wrong with his films—silly plots, over-the-top trashy cartoonish characters, amateur “acting,” low-rent production, and his general misanthropic outlook and total irreverence—is precisely what drew me to him. He was punk before punk rock. It’s all so wonderfully awful, like Ed Wood with an intentionally nasty, edgy bite—not an unsophisticated innocence that happened by accident.

Multiple Maniacs is typical John Waters, but it’s noteworthy for two reasons. One, it’s loaded with ideas that show up in later films—as far down the line as Serial Mom and Peckerhead. This definitely will appeal to fans, especially when it becomes apparent that Multiple Maniacs is a rough (if you can imagine) blueprint for Pink Flamingos. If nothing else, this film is interesting from a developmental perspective. Two, the shock value is extreme even considering the source. Eating dog shit is tame compared to shooting up in church, cannibalism, a rosary up Divine’s ass (as she recites the Stations of the Cross), and a rape scene involving a giant lobster straight from a Godzilla flick. Jammed with references to Catholicism—including Jesus (George Figgs), Mary (Massey), and the Infant of Prague (Michael Renner, Jr.)—and Charles Manson, Waters creates a number of shall we say “colorful” moments you won’t see anywhere else, ever again.

Oh, Sugar Scrub, can we watch a Disney movie now?

Side note: I started to write this entry as a letter to my friend John (a.k.a. Sugar Scrub), who saw Multiple Maniacs with us. The idea didn’t work. Sorry, John!

91 fucked up minutes
Rated X (NC-17 today)

(Music Box) B

http://www.janusfilms.com/films/1817

Vampire’s Kiss

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(USA 1989)

“Alva, there is no one else in this entire office that I could possibly ask to share such a horrible job. You’re the lowest on the totem pole here, Alva. The lowest. Do you realize that? Every other secretary here has been here longer than you, Alva. Every one. And even if there was someone here who was here even one day longer than you, I still wouldn’t ask that person to partake in such a miserable job as long as you were around. That’s right, Alva. It’s a horrible, horrible job; sifting through old contract after old contract. I couldn’t think of a more horrible job if I wanted to. And you have to do it!”

—Peter Loew

Vampire’s Kiss is a strange one. Peter Loew (Nicolas Cage) is a yuppie literary agent in Manhattan. He spends his days working on clients and berating his assistant, Alva (Maria Conchita Alonso), who can’t locate a contract from 25 years ago. He spends his nights picking up one-night stands at bars and clubs. He also sees a psychiatrist (Elizabeth Ashley), who is getting concerned about him.

One night, Loew picks up a hot vixen named Rachel (Jennifer Beals) and brings her back to his apartment. During their romp, she bites him on the neck. Thus begins his descent as he gradually turns into a vampire. Eeek!

After getting past his affected accent—a curious not to mention annoying mix of British guy and Valley dude that comes and goes depending on where he is—it’s fun to watch Cage act more and more like a lunatic as his character unravels. Loew becomes increasingly weird, disheveled, and belligerent, especially toward Alva. He eats bugs and birds. He converts his apartment into a crypt complete with a makeshift coffin. He avoids daylight and keeps sunglasses on at all times. The bit with him running around all night one Saturday wearing fake plastic vampire teeth he bought at a magic shop is truly funny.

It doesn’t take long for the whole thing to get old, though. Robert Bierman’s directing isn’t bad, but it’s hard to tell what exactly is behind the decidedly misogynistic vibe. Aside from scenes of New York City in the late ’80s and laughable knock-offs of New Order and Dead or Alive songs playing in a few dance club scenes, Vampire’s Kiss doesn’t offer all that much.

103 minutes
Rated R

(MoviePlex) C-

Burn After Reading

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(USA 2008)

The Coen Brothers have made a lot of movies—just like Madonna has made a lot of albums. Burn After Reading is a light, wacky espionage spoof that’s fun to watch. It falls somewhere in the lower middle of their oeuvre—about where Hard Candy, another star-studded affair released the same year, falls for Madonna: good but not great, more fluffy than provocative, and interesting enough to pull out every now and then but certainly not the first thing I reach for when I’m in the mood for the artist.

The cast is stellar: Frances McDormand, John Malkovich, Tilda Swinton, George Clooney, and Brad Pitt. The characters are amusing—everyone is, in a word, stupid. Malkovich as Osborne Cox is easily the standout: he’s an angry, misanthropic, drunk loose cannon. The plot, which involves a total misunderstanding about the contents of a CD left behind at a health club (Hardbodies), is typically intricate and well-executed Coen stuff. McDormand’s character, Linda—who she plays with a winning dippy positivism—has a hilariously brilliant motive: to extort money so she can buy the plastic surgery her insurance company won’t cover. Working Washington bigshots and Russian bad guys into the mix is a very nice touch.

All that said, Burn After Reading has its problems. The characters are cartoonish. The plot drags at points, especially the subplot with Clooney’s character, Harry, and his womanizing. The action chugs along and generates momentum, but somehow we don’t end up anywhere when all is said and done.

Burn After Reading isn’t perfect, but its highs overcome its flaws. It might rate higher in the hands of another team; but being the Coen Brothers, expectations are higher than average. That may not be fair to them, but it’s a fair statement nonetheless.

96 minutes
Rated R

(iTunes) C+

http://www.focusfeatures.com/burn_after_reading

Wiener-Dog

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(USA 2016)

For someone whose best-known films have words like “welcome” and “happiness” in their titles, Todd Solondz doesn’t come across as a particularly cheery guy. His stories are never sentimental or uplifting. His characters are a motley crew of hopeless geeks, unattractive lurps, and outright assholes. He exposes the worst of humanity—pettiness, cruelty, disappointment, indifference—and makes a deranged joke out of it. To some (like me), his bleak, misanthropic perspective is wildly amusing, refreshing, and compelling. Those who dig his twisted brand of cynicism should relish Wiener-Dog, his first film in five years.

Wiener-Dog follows the life of a dachshund as she passes through a succession of masters in four vignettes: Remi (Keaton Nigel Cooke), a child cancer survivor; Dawn (Greta Gerwig), a flummoxed vet assistant who runs into a former classmate, Brandon (Kieran Culkin), at a convenience store; Schmertz (Danny DeVito), a film writing professor on the verge of a meltdown over a screenplay he can’t get his agent to read; and a dying old sourpuss (Ellen Burstyn) whose cracky granddaughter, Zoe (Zosia Mamet), pays her an unexpected visit.

WARNING: Potential spoilers ahead!

Side note: the aforementioned Dawn is Dawn Wiener—whose classmates’ mean nickname for her provides the title here—from Welcome to the Dollhouse. I was apprehensive about the idea of resurrecting her and Brandon, but it works on its own without coming off as a desperate attempt at piggybacking a successful past project or playing on nostalgia.

Wiener-Dog is all Solondz, and he’s focused on mortality: sickness and death color each sketch. He starts at childhood and moves through adulthood, getting progressively glum as he leads us to a grave of sorts. Even Weiner-Dog’s name, which changes with each master, hints at where this is all going: Wiener-Dog, Doodie (as in poop), and Cancer—if DeVito’s character named her, I missed it. With just a few exceptions, everyone is terrible. This film is loaded with wonderfully sad, absurd dialogue. Remi’s father (Tracy Lett) explains the importance of breaking a dog’s will, ending the discussion on a bizarre contradictory note. In a hilarious philosophical colloquy, Remi’s mother (Julia Delphy) explains why Wiener-Dog needs to be spayed, inadvertently bringing him to the conclusion that “death is a good thing.” Brandon tells his brother (Connor Long), who has Down’s Syndrome, that their father just died from drinking, even though he said he quit a long time ago. An admissions committee interviews an applicant (Devin Druid) about why he wants to go to film school, and he can’t answer a single question. A school administrator (Sharon Washington) confronts DeVito about his negativity. Zoe explains how rare the ostrich egg she just gave her grandmother is while her grandmother’s unimpressed nurse, Yvette (Marcella Lowery), takes it away to dispose of it. In a dream sequence, Ellen Burstyn’s character has a weird conversation with multiple alternate versions of herself (Melo Ludwig) that chose to be nicer during life.

And then there’s the ending—abrupt and jarring, I literally jumped in my seat and sat there frozen for a few moments. True to form, Solondz makes it clear that no one is important in life’s grand scheme.

Solondz called Wiener-Dog one of his “sunnier” films, and it actually is. To expect a schlocky tale highlighting the joy a pet brings is stupid considering the man behind it. Nonetheless, Solondz gets as sweet as I’ve ever seen him, especially with Dawn and Brandon. The scene where Zoe confides to her grandmother that she suspects her boyfriend, Fantasy (Michael Shaw), is running around behind her back is also touching. The “intermission” is dumb but cute, and the songs are fun. Wiener-Dog has a good life unlike those around her—she isn’t mistreated, and she achieves something none of the other characters do: immortality.

Screening followed by a live Q and A with Todd Solondz.

93 minutes
Rated R

(Music Box) B+

http://www.wienerdogmovie.com