While I’m a big believer in the therapeutic value of art, I sometimes wonder whether the money spent on said art — say, the millions of dollars involved with a typical American film production — would be better spent on actual therapy sessions. For instance, had he used the budget of his latest film on meetings with Manhattan’s finest psychotherapists — you know, the kind with beautifully manicured beards and Georgia O’Keeffe originals on their walls — Noah Baumbach might be a happier individual today. Better yet, admirers of Baumbach’s previous effort, the superb The Squid and the Whale, would’ve been spared the feelings of disappointment caused by his second consecutive film about solipsistic writers who thoughtlessly inflict damage on each other and their children.
This is not what has transpired. Instead, we have Margot at the Wedding, a sour, mean-spirited film that revisits the same terrain as its predecessor but without its accompanying sense of empathy. While Baumbach has denied that the monstrous writer-parents in both movies are stand-ins for his own writer-parents — novelist Jonathan Baumbach and former Village Voice film critic Georgia Brown — even he’s got to admit there’s a pattern that’s worth discussing with a professional.
In this second variation, Margot (Nicole Kidman) is a novelist of no discernible distinction who has damaged her already-plenty-strained family relationships by writing about them in her work. In a move that can be variously interpreted as an attempt at reconciliation, an escape from her crumbling marriage and an excuse to see a lover who lives nearby, Margot and her teenage son Claude (Zane Pais) go to Long Island to visit Margot’s sister Pauline (Jennifer Jason Leigh) at their family home.
Pauline is about to marry Malcolm, a guy who even Jack Black’s other characters would deem a hopeless shlub. Understandably appalled with her potential brother-in-law, Margot can’t resist the temptation to meddle in Pauline’s life — a croquet game and a confrontation with a neighbour over an old tree become flashpoints in the psychological warfare that ensues.
Partially intended as a tribute to Eric Rohmer — taking after the French director’s Pauline at the Beach, Baumbach’s film was titled Nicole at the Beach until Kidman was cast — Margot at the Wedding also has echoes of Persona, Ingmar Bergman’s most indelible portrait of two women trying to tear each other to pieces. A more accurate antecedent is Alexander Payne’s About Schmidt, another mirthless comedy-drama that displays boundless contempt for its admittedly hateful characters. Since the people in Margot at the Wedding can be counted on to do and say the least appropriate and most hurtful thing at every given opportunity, little they do is surprising. As a result, their presence is increasingly wearisome. Already of the uncomfortable variety but not the funny, Larry David kind, the laughs tend to die in the throat.
Baumbach draws some sympathy for the kids caught in the sisters’ crossfire, but they’re peripheral figures here — perhaps The Squid and the Whale would’ve been equally irritating if it had focused on the parents instead of the confused young brothers.
I can only hope that Baumbach has worked something out of his system and that his next film will have more of its predecessor’s relative warmth, maybe even some of the screwy charm that distinguished his first feature, Kicking and Screaming. If not, I’m happy to pony up for a few sessions on the couch. I know a great guy.