The majority of critics ADORED this movie and the screenplay was nominated for an Academy Award, so I figured it was a fairly safe bet. You can't win 'em all. This film was Mumblecore before Mumblecore (a genre which critics initially poured far too much praise upon). Of course, these characters don't mumble as much as simply drone on and on about their fear of eventual failure that would apparently bring more emptiness to their Park Avenue lives. Bringing us into this world has the potential to keep an audience's interest for a short period of time, but the film never progresses behind exploring this youthful angst. It's not a plot issue. A filmmaker can afford to have 90 minutes where not much happens in terms of plot, provided he or she creates characters and situations that are so compelling, you want to continue watching (not much happens in Hal Ashby's "The Last Detail" either, but try looking away from Nicolson and company in that film). Alas, that is not the case here. Yet, like Mumblecore (which is thankfully dying a rapid death), this film revolves around post- (or mid-) college, white, upper middle class, awkward youngsters who can't seem to shake their general sense of malaise. The film itself appears to be shot on a shoestring budget, and considering that, the cinematography is quite impressive. However, the acting is often painful to watch (with the exception of Carolyn Farina), and though there are no pyrotechnics, there's barely a plausible moment in the film. None of the characters speak or behave in a way that is even remotely believable. It's one pseudo-intellectual diatribe after another with no hint of a natural segue. The actors all seem to be standing around, with no sense of true life or action, waiting to spew out or be the recipient of the next unmotivated monologue. Aside from a truth-or-dare type party game that involves burning cigarettes through a napkin, there's not one conversation that feels authentic. One scene finds an apparently sober middle-aged man at a local bar pouring his heart out to our pair of 19-year old protagonists for no apparent reason except possibly that the author wanted to squeeze in another monologue. This scene could have worked with a different character if it were more skillfully setup. Finally, the final scene at the beach house is "groan-worthy" in its attempt to manufacture misplaced drama, but winds up looking like a bad student film with the poor actors looking completely lost as how to try and make the scene look realistic. However, this was Stillman's first film, so I'd be interested in checking out his other 2 films to see where he went from here.
Review of Metropolitan
