We Don't Live Here Anymore Review
by Jon Popick (jpopick AT sick-boy DOT com)August 14th, 2004
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John Curran's We Don't Live Here Anymore netted screenwriter Larry Gross the prestigious Waldo Salt Screenwriting Award at the Sundance Film Festival earlier this year. Anymore is based on a pair of short stories from Andre Dubus, who you may remember as the source of such melodrama as In the Bedroom (as well as spawning the equally morose Andre Dubus III, author of House of Sand and Fog). Needless to say, if you're looking for some light laughs while your Manicotti Formaggio from Olive Garden digests, you're probably going to have to search elsewhere.
There's a popular belief that people are suffering mid-life crises at earlier ages these days, and Anymore puts that theory to work as it shows what should ultimately be the last act of a pair of seemingly doomed marriages (like any good, non-cookie cutter film, it doesn't offer any closure, which helps add to the overall gloominess of the proceedings). Jack (Mark Ruffalo, Collateral) and Hank (Peter Krause, Six Feet Under) are best friends who are also both scruffy English professors at a small New England college. Each is married with young children, and they both look forward to their regular runs through the majestic scenery of their small town.
The similarities end there, however. Hank lives in a clean, bright house with a perfect wife named Edith (Naomi Watts, 21 Grams) and his well-behaved daughter. He doesn't smoke, he stretches before he jogs, and he's more than happy to work during the summer, which keeps his family free from worries about money. Conversely, Jack's home, which is shared with wife Terry (Laura Dern, I Am Sam), is full of dark wood and is perpetually messy. His kids are screaming monsters, and Terry does her fair share of shrieking, as well: Money, parenting, and a dwindling quality in the bullshit excuses Jack concocts to slip away and bang Hank's wife. When confronted, Jack lashes out with sarcasm and accusations, which only makes it easier for Terry to think about the passes Hank continually makes at her. Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Uhh, beats me.
I thought Gross's script was the weakest past of Anymore, but was slightly more intrigued by it hours later, when I began thinking about how different viewers might identify with different characters and, therefore, be able to cull different things from the film. While I was watching it, I assumed Anymore was being told from the point of view of the two men, particularly Jack (we get to hear his thoughts twice, for some reason). But that might mean I simply identified with his situation more than the other three players. I don't know - see it for yourself and let me know what you think. I'm still kind of scratching my head about the guy who wrote True Crime, Prozac Nation and Chinese Box winning the same screenwriting award bestowed upon The Station Agent, Memento and You Can Count on Me.
Curran's direction is far stronger than Anymore's writing (though it was topped by the four blistering lead performances). He leaves the film dripping with enough dread and doom to make you think somebody was going to get hit by a train, or fall off of a cliff, or get gunned down in some convenience store robbery. Curran purposefully saps the Jack-Edith tryst of any sexual chemistry, and constantly mixes up sound, images and the picture' s moody score in a thought-provoking style.
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