There aren't a lot of movies that try to seriously portray depression, and even fewer that do so well. Happiness gets so much right it's almost traumatic. I found myself remembering lonely nights in the past, that mixture of hatred and longing for the outside world, the apparent monstrosity of happy people, and the crippling self-doubt that eventually turns you into the awful person you've already convinced yourself you are.
If there's one thread tying together this ensemble drama, it's mental illness and dysfunction, and the perils of ignoring it. All of the characters are ultimately incapable of understanding each others emotions, and this blindness has monstrous consequences. Otherwise, Happiness is somewhat disparate, using the loose framing device of an extended family to tie together stories of various subjects and quality. Most interesting to me was Philip Seymour Hoffman as an awkward introvert boiling over with rage that he can never express. Of course, expressing your inner longings is not necessarily a good thing, as with Dylan Baker's pedophile suburban dad. The latter plot often feels overextended, but Baker's oddly sympathetic performance makes it ultimately riveting in a grotesque way. Other plots, such as the jaunts down to a retirement community in Florida, are less interesting, and as the film goes on more and more hacky stereotypes start to creep in, with Gerald Harris's Russian lothario being the biggest example.
Todd Solondz presents the whole thing with a sunny TV-sitcom style that underscores both the horror and the ordinariness of what is going on. He also gets some great performances out of his actors, including the expected Hoffman and Baker and the less-expected Camryn Manheim and Jayne Adams. Solondz is a provocateur, sometimes to his detriment, and Happiness is undoubtedly a film that tries to shock and scandalize its audience. But its psychological understanding ultimately makes that shock more than a cheap thrill.
If there's one thread tying together this ensemble drama, it's mental illness and dysfunction, and the perils of ignoring it. All of the characters are ultimately incapable of understanding each others emotions, and this blindness has monstrous consequences. Otherwise, Happiness is somewhat disparate, using the loose framing device of an extended family to tie together stories of various subjects and quality. Most interesting to me was Philip Seymour Hoffman as an awkward introvert boiling over with rage that he can never express. Of course, expressing your inner longings is not necessarily a good thing, as with Dylan Baker's pedophile suburban dad. The latter plot often feels overextended, but Baker's oddly sympathetic performance makes it ultimately riveting in a grotesque way. Other plots, such as the jaunts down to a retirement community in Florida, are less interesting, and as the film goes on more and more hacky stereotypes start to creep in, with Gerald Harris's Russian lothario being the biggest example.
Todd Solondz presents the whole thing with a sunny TV-sitcom style that underscores both the horror and the ordinariness of what is going on. He also gets some great performances out of his actors, including the expected Hoffman and Baker and the less-expected Camryn Manheim and Jayne Adams. Solondz is a provocateur, sometimes to his detriment, and Happiness is undoubtedly a film that tries to shock and scandalize its audience. But its psychological understanding ultimately makes that shock more than a cheap thrill.