Review by Pamela Zoslov
DEMOLITION
opens with an auto accident
that kills the wife of Davis, a successful Manhattan investment
banker. A similar collision is taking place between the styles of the
movie's writer, Bryan Sipe, and its director, the Quebecois Jean-Marc
Vallée.
Sipe's screenplay is a
conventionally glossy Hollywood weeper, which has Jake Gyllenhaal as
the young widower unable to come to terms with the death of his wife,
Julia (Heather Lind). Despite the urgings of his father-in-law, Phil
(Chris Cooper), who is also his boss, Davis is unable to cry or
grieve in the expected ways. Instead, he becomes obsessed with taking
things apart, literally — the refrigerator his wife had asked him
to repair; furniture, lamps and bathroom stalls at his office;
eventually, his shiny glass-box house in White Plains, which he
attacks ferociously with sledgehammers and even a bulldozer. It's a
clumsy, heavy-handed metaphor for grief and the postmortem
examination of a marriage. (He's “taking things apart,” get it?)
Judging from his
previous films, Vallée's contribution may be the unusal details and
detours that provide grittiness, European flavor and hints of magic.
There's a twinkly old man who, improbably, sells marijuana by the
beach and is the steward of an abandoned carousel that holds a key to
Davis' healing. Then there's Chris (Judah Lewis), an adolescent boy –
the son of a woman who Davis befriends — who is enamored of rock-and-roll androgyny and struggling with his budding bisexuality, a
story similar to Vallée's acclaimed French-language film C.R.A.Z.Y.
Most of us are not
privy to what goes into the making of films. My idea of clashing
styles is an inference based on Vallée's handling of films like
DALLAS BUYER'S CLUB and
WILD. In those movies,
both written by others, the French Canadian director brought a vivid
intensity to flashbacks of the characters' wanton lives — Ron
Woodson's drug use and indiscriminate sex that resulted in AIDS,
Cheryl Strayed's decadent life that led her to renew herself by
hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. Vallée seems to have an affinity for
emotionally troubled people. In one scene, involving a handgun and a
bulletproof vest (don't ask), Davis tells young Chris, “You're one
fucked-up kid,” to which Chris replies, accurately, “You're one
fucked-up adult.”
The relationship between
Davis and teenage Chris is ancillary to the main story, which begins
with the sudden death of Davis' wife and proceeds through his stages
of grief. A candy vending machine at the hospital fails to dispense his M&M's, so he contacts the vending machine company, writing a
long, revealing letter about his life. The epistolary device is
appealing — we learn a little about Davis' character and how he
stumbled, through marriage, into a finance career that doesn't really
interest him.
Davis' letters elicit an
unlikely 2 a.m phone call from Karen (Naomi Watts), a customer
service representative touched by his confessional writings. Karen is
also slightly messed-up, an avid pot smoker involved living with her
son and a boyfriend she's not crazy about. Davis and Karen engage in
a shy flirtation, then a platonic romance. As played by Watts, Karen
is an interesting, refreshingly unglamorous figure, but the narrative
has her cede the stage to her son and his issues.
Davis continues on his
path of destruction, at one point bribing a crew that's demolishing a
house to let him, in his expensive suit, help with a teardown.
Father-in-law Phil hectors him about participating in a scholarship
program in memory of Julia, an idea Davis resists. His behavior at
the office becomes so bizarre that Phil suggests he “take some time
off.” Davis seems to be sliding downhill, and by the time he
enlists Chris in sledgehammering his house, he seems ready to be
committed.
In some ways, the
story is reminiscent of the 2012 SILVER LININGS PLAYBOOK,
another epistolary story about a man grieving his marriage and trying
to regain his sanity. The story here is less coherent, wandering all
over the place as if bored by this rich guy's story. (The character
is so vain and privileged that it's supposed to be significant when
he doesn't care enough to tweeze his eyebrows.) There's a late-act
revelation about the marriage, and odd flights like a montage of
Davis sliding down railings, leaping about and shaking his hips on
city streets. Whereas in Silver Linings,
Bradley Cooper was able to create a heartbreaking lead character, we
don't really penetrate Gyllenhaal's handsome exterior; what we feel
for him is not so much compassion as alarm — who will clean up his
wrecked house?
And yet, things that are
perfect are not always interesting. This movie's narrative bumps and
stylistic anomalies, as well as its focus on emotional suffering and
redemption, give it a certain jagged charm. 2 1/2 out of 4 stars.
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