WE DON'T LIVE HERE ANY MORE
Reviewed by Harvey S. Karten
Warner Independent Pictures
Grade: B
Directed by: John Curran
Written by: Larry Gross, stories by Andre Dubus
Cast: Mark Ruffalo, Laura Dern, Peter Krause, Naomi Watts,
Sam Charles, Haili Page, Jennifer Bishop
Screened at: Broadway, NYC, 8/6/04
During one creative writing class in a small, leafy college
community, Jack Linden (Mark Ruffalo), an instructor, reads a
portion from Leo Tolstoy's "The Death of Ivan Ilyich." A student
protests that the ending is downbeat, to which Linden replies that
not all stories end happily ever after: sometimes an author just
want to give his readers a picture of death. Similarly, scripter
Larry Gross, adapting two of Andre Dubus's short stories, unfolds
a painful sketch of two couples; Jack Linden, who is married to
Terry (Laura Dern); and Hank Evans (Peter Krause) who is
married to Edith (Naomi Watts). This is by no means an upbeat
story, but while "We Don't Live Here Any More" is not a picture of
death itself, it's an intimate, painful tale of a pair of marriages
which have been dying for a while, its participants in denial about
the seriousness. I suppose we could rejoice that ultimately,
Gross will allow the four to part, albeit not amicably, escaping
from the bad in order to take their chances separately.
Directed by John Curran, the film unfolds upon two people who
have quite a bit in common, since Hank and Jack teach the same
courses in creative writing in the same small town, the four
individuals partying together with surface joy, trying nobly to
repress what has not yet been said. Edith, who comes across as
the horniest of the quartet, thinks nothing of renting a motel room
to further her tryst with Jack, while Terry, despite the smallness
of the town, appears oblivious to the cheating ways of her man.
Not that Terry is so guiltless–she has been carrying on an affair
with Jack's best friend, Hank, while Jack gives no hint in his easy
banter with Hank that he is in the know any more than his jogging
companion.
The bitter arguments that appear to involve most of Jack and
Terry's home life are not motivated by any knowledge of outside
affairs, but despite the extra vitriol that comprises her side of the
bitter feud, a passive-aggressive Jack is hardly without blame.
Though Hank is the cuter male who displays a playful side when
discussing his attempts to get published, his wife has eyes only
for Hank. You've got to wonder about a college when a writing
throws a party just because the New Yorker magazine accepts a
single poem.
Director Curran is not shy about sending us graphic pictures of
the lovemaking between Jack and Edith, the four performers
acting their roles perfectly–with Naomi Watts conveying intense
desire whenever she is within an arm's distance or less from the
object of her lust. The story gets soapy toward the conclusion,
but "We Don't Live Here Any More" makes us think, "Hey,
Edward Albee, move over: ‘Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf' is a
story that is repeated over and over in the movies and on stage
and presumably in the larger reality of life itself.
Rated R. 104 minutes. © 2004 by Harvey Karten
at harveycritic@cs.com
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