A Shattered Marriage: Trauma & Heartbreak in “The Squid and the Whale”


The governing philosophy of writer-director Noah Baumbach’s heartfelt, sharp-witted The Squid and the Whale is nicely summed up by the unsparing words of one of his central protagonists Barnard: “people can be very stupid.”  A tender, exquisitely painful look at the aftermath of a messy divorce, The Squid and the Whale is also a portrait of the manifold ways people can be petty and foolish when heartbroken.

Barnard (Jeff Daniels) is perhaps the stupidest of all Baumbach’s characters.  A once acclaimed novelist whose stardom has dimmed, Barnard is an insufferable bastard for most of the film. Haughtily pompous, he speaks with an obnoxious pretension, assuredly telling his teenage son Walt (Jesse Eisenberg) not to bother with A Tale of Two Cities because it’s “minor Dickens.”  So self-important is he that at one point he calls Kafka “one of his predecessors.”  When he’s not bragging about an alluring woman he could’ve slept with at a George Plimpton party, he’s subtly boasting that one of his scenes was a favorite of Norman Mailer’s.  One gets the sense that Barnard drops the names of impressive people and touts sophisticated-sounding opinions to conceal a deep-seated insecurity: though he was once a novelist of some renown, now he can’t get an agent or a book published.  Every time Barnard uttered yet another one of his overblown opinions or self-mythologizing stories, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.  Needless to say, my eyes were rarely straight ahead for the brief 80 minutes of the film…is it any wonder his wife Joan (Laura Linney) leaves him?  

A literary talent on the rise, Joan is also a writer but— unlike her has been husband— she actually writes.  In a revealing scene, Barnard is setting up his bed on the coach, a tattered copy of Saul Bellow’s The Victim daring us to analyze its significance on the night stand, when he hears the clatter of typewriter keys in the kitchen. Curious, he follows the sound to find his wife visited by the muses who’ve so long forsaken him.

What are you writing?” he asks obviously jealous, “Did you take my note about the ending?”

Yeah, some of it….” she nods evasively, clearly not wanting to quarrel.

Does he still die?” Barnard presses.

Yes,” she finally admits like a child who’s forced to concede to a bully at school.

Then you didn’t take my note.”

What follows is a sad scene all too familiar to those who grew up in a turbulent home.  As Barnard and Joan holler and shriek, their two sons find their own ways to cope: 12-year-old Frank (Owen Kline) tries to ignore their fighting and hide under the covers; older brother Walt (Jesse Eisenberg) leaves his room to check the commotion, looking painfully vulnerable as he sprawls out on the stairs in his underwear.  Baumbach’s directorial touch here is beautifully subtle: though he never states it outright, it’s undeniable envy plays a central role in Barnard and Joan’s breakup.

unhappy couple

When Barnard and Joan finally break the news of their split, both are startlingly distant; rather than console their sons with loving assurances, all they discuss are the logistics of joint custody.  Yes, after some time Joan hugs a tearful Frank but what should be a heartfelt exchange still seems oddly devoid of emotion.  

Divorce is traumatic.  We hear this over and over.  But never before has a movie so faithfully limned the pain and grief that follows marital dissolution.  After the disintegration of his 17-year marriage, Barnard becomes more angry and bitter, constantly bad-mouthing Joan to his sons, even tactlessly revealing to Walt that his mother had an affair.  Little thought is given as to how such a divulgence will affect the teenager— all Barnard cares about is enlisting recruits on his side of the war.  

Joan isn’t entirely innocent either: unhappy in her loveless marriage to a self-absorbed writer, she finds solace in passionate affairs with several men, including her youngest son’s tennis instructor.  Rather than divorce Barnard, she remains unfaithful for many years.  Much like her ex-husband, in the immediate aftermath of their divorce she behaves selfishly and insensitively, telling Frank when he shows up unexpectedly for a visit that she needs a “break” from him and his brother once in awhile.  

While Joan is romping with a sexy tennis instructor and Barnard is lambasting Joan, their sons are finding their own ways of coping with the devastation of a broken home.  A masterful storyteller (he was once a novelist, after all), Barnard fashions a narrative in which he’s the irreproachable victim.  Walt, who idolizes his father, whole-heartedly believes his versions of events and channels his rage at Joan, at one point accusing her of “running a brothel.”  Outraged by her infidelities, he blames his mother for the divorce and relentlessly defends Barnard.  Yes, Joan was unfaithful but— as more impartial viewers witnessing these events— we possess the context to understand her affairs were most likely a symptom of an already strained marriage, not their cause.

walt & barnard

The stupidest thing Walt does, I think, is side with Barnard.  Not only does he unfairly hold his mother responsible for the divorce, he worships an uppity, self-satisfied snob.  In the cult of novelist Barnard, Walt is his most devoted follower: he reveres his father’s judgement so much that he trusts his assessments of literature without question, often passing over books simply because his father dismisses them.  So ardent is his adoration that he develops the off-putting habit of imitating his father’s elitist opinions, though he’s never actually read the books he so confidently critiques himself.  In a hilarious scene, he tells his love interest that Metamorphosis is very “Kafkaesque,” a bookish adjective he’s undoubtedly heard his father spout around the house.  “Uh, yeah,” Sophie (Halley Feiffer) replies, “it would have to be. It’s by Franz Kafka.”

In the wake of his parents’ acrimonious break up, the most despicable habit Walt adopts from his father is his misogyny.  It is from Barnard that Walt learns women are but a prop for man’s colossal ego— nothing but pretty play things to be assessed by their exteriors alone.  Throughout the film, Walt treats Sophie not as a first love to be courted and wooed but as a placeholder until he finds someone better.  “What do you mean, better?” his mother asks in disbelief, knowing “better” is code for more attractive.  Barnard encourages this detestable attitude toward women, at one point telling him to have sex with Sophie once to see if he “likes” it and on several occasions urging him to “play the field” and “not get tied down.”  After Walt wins the school talent show by passing off Pink Floyd’s “Hey You” as his own, Barnard is more adamant in his recommendation to sidestep commitment: “Things are going to change for you after tonight,” he assures him, hinting Walt will attract more tantalizing, desirable prospects after the evening’s show.  

Despite their (many) failings, film critic Nick Schager has said, The Squid and the Whale “dares not harshly judge its all-too-human characters.”  I would have to agree.  Barnard, Walt, Joan: all are but frail, flawed people trying to navigate heartbreak on their own.

Morality & Justice in Macon Blair’s “I Don’t Feel at Home in This World Anymore”

ruth & tony

Offbeat, dark and at times downright hysterical, Macon Blair’s I Don’t Feel at Home in This World Anymore charts one neurotic woman’s quest to recover justice in an evermore unjust world.  The inescapable buzz of grim news blaring through car radios, the bleak reports of protests and mass shootings, the million and one ways men can be thoughtless and utterly inconsiderate of each other: all provide the dreary backdrop to Ruth Kimke’s rather sad life.  In the opening scene alone, our central character witnesses an elderly woman die after making a series of despicably vulgar, racist comments, a colossal pickup truck unapologetically guzzle gas and belch a stream of exhaust, and countless other ordinary people be heedless and rude.  The cheerful strumming of Jason Newman’s ukuleles renders the scene all the more pitiful.  When Ruth arrives home only to find that she’s been robbed, she loses what little faith in humanity she has left and sets out to find the perpetrators on her own.  

Our misanthropic protagonist becomes more ruthlessly cynical as she notices the deterioration of graciousness and good manners all around her.  So disgusted is she with humanity that she starts sobbing while reading a bedtime story to a five year old.  “But everyone’s an asshole!” a hysterical, disillusioned Ruth counters when a friend tries to comfort her with platitudes.  


Self-described as a constant portrayer of morose and dispirited types, Melanie Lynskey captures Ruth’s bitter outrage with moving effect.  As LA Times film critic Justin Chang has said, Lynskey  gives “endearing form to a woman for whom life has become an endless series of dissatisfactions.”  But what makes her character relatable and likeable-I think-is her yearning to preserve rectitude in a broken world.  In our harrowing era of division and bigotry, many of us can identify with Ruth, a weary woman who wonders what happened to basic courtesy among fellows.

Ruth, however, isn’t an entirely sympathetic character.  Is her commitment to goodness noble?  Of course.  But watching the film, I couldn’t help but find her rants about the decline of human decency unproductively pessimistic.  Yes, people are assholes: what’s sitting and complaining for 45 minutes going to do about it?  When Ruth embarks on a mission to locate the people who robbed her, I understand her motives: she’s an upstanding citizen who’s tired of contemptible people doing wrong and getting away with it.  But the pragmatist in me couldn’t help but wonder: if you find the perpetrators, what are you going to accomplish?  You’ll get your grandma’s irreplaceable silver back?  You’ll have the satisfaction of reestablishing some kind of moral order where lowlifes are brought to justice?  Not to mention her exasperation with the detectives on her case seemed whiny and self-centered.  Poor Ruth…the police aren’t paying full attention to your petty robbery case?  Did you ever think they have more pressing things to get to like rapists and serial killers?

By the end of the film, the cost of Ruth doing the “right” thing is high.  In her pursuit of justice, she becomes quite an asshole herself, smacking an old, innocent pawnshop owner in the face and stealing a wealthy couple’s sculpture from their front lawn, even though they didn’t loot her home, it was their estranged drug addict son.  By the time I Don’t Feel at Home in This World Anymore lurches into bloody mayhem, we’ve seen the appalling, atrocious things of which men are capable.  In the end, Ruth is right: people are assholes.  But the film’s terrifying descent seems to warn against channeling our rage like Ruth.

The American Dream: Meaning & Materialism in “American Beauty”


Revisiting favorite films is one of my most cherished simple pleasures.  I delight in analyzing a film’s minute details: the bits of dialogue, the arrangements and sequences of scenes.  There’s something incredibly gratifying about breaking down a work of art and seeing how it works.

This week reexamined 1999 drama American Beauty.  Director Sam Mendes mercilessly satirizes the Burnhams, a “normal” American family who possesses every middle class luxury but lacks a meaningful sense of themselves and each other.  The film opens on Lester, a pathetic advertising executive who describes “jerking off” as the high point of his day.  The next 24 hours consist of his much younger and recently promoted boss telling him, in the most pseudo-kindhearted way, that he must fill out a detailed job description so the company (in typical corporatist fashion) can decide “who’s valuable and who’s dispensable.”


Life at home isn’t much better.  His high-strung real estate agent wife, Carolyn, uses her job as a convenient excuse to ignore him while their daughter, Jane, couldn’t despise either of them more.

burnham family

From a Marxist perspective, American Beauty reveals itself an outright condemnation of the American bourgeois.  Though the Burnhams have attained all the outward signposts of success-pruning shears with tastefully matching gardening clogs, a gorgeous two-story home with the quintessentially American white picket fence- both Lester and Carolyn find themselves trapped by the hopeless banality of their suburbia.  For them, conventional, consumeristic notions of affluence have failed to bring any sort of lasting satisfaction.  In fact, the accumulation of more and more things seems to demolish the possibility for genuine happiness and human connection all together.  In a poignant scene, we realize that Lester and Carolyn’s marriage is too far gone to be recovered. 

Uh, who’s car is that out front?” Carolyn asks irritated, pristinely manicured fingertips tapping on the door frame.

Mine.  1970 Pontiac Firebird.  It’s the car I always wanted and now I have it.  I rule!” Lester replies matter-of-factly.

Where’s the Camry?”

I traded it in.”

Shouldn’t you have consulted me first?”

Hm, let me think.  No, you never drove it.”

lester and carolyn

Soon the marital bickering becomes an invitation to intimacy: “Where’s Jane?” Carolyn asks, her distracted tone implying she’s only asking out of a sense of parental obligation rather than genuine concern.

Jane not home,” Lester replies in a caveman manner indicative of his return to a baser, more visceral need for sexual attention.  Carolyn looks confused, alarmed even (clearly they haven’t had any kind of physical contact, let alone flirtation, in a long time).

We have the house all to ourselves,” Lester says, alluringly lingering over every word as he moves besides her on the coach.  Carolyn, again, looks fearful.  “Christ Carolyn. When did you become so…joyless?” (the negation of the suffix rendering the absence of joy, the total lack of delight in their hollow, cardboard cut-out lives, all the more poignant).

Her eyes widen in a sad blend of shock and hurt.  “Joyless?  I’m not joyless.  There happens to be a lot about me that you don’t know, Mr. Smarty Man.”  (that she’s fucking the Real Estate King whose cheesy face is plastered on bus stops all over town, for instance.)

Whatever happened to that girl who used to fake seizures at frat parties when she got bored?  Who used to run up to the roof of our first apartment building to flash the traffic helicopters?  Have you completely forgotten about her?  Because I haven’t…” he leans in seductively.  

Recalling these past versions of herself, Carolyn chuckles as she leans against the coach.  Lester begins kissing her neck and, for a brief moment, we think there might be hope for this estranged couple.  But as Lester slowly caresses her neck, Carolyn turns her head: “Lester, you’re about to spill beer on the coach!”

beer on coach #1

beer on couch #2

Always brilliant Annette Bening so precisely captures the complexity of Carolyn’s emotions at this moment: the terror at seeing her $4,000 pin-striped, Italian upholstered silk coach nearly ruined by a drop of beer; the disgust she feels with herself for caring so little for her husband and so much for a coach; and the aching regret she must live with knowing she spoiled their one chance at reconciliation forever. 

It’s just a couch!” Lester screams, outraged at his wife’s acquisitiveness.  

The fact that Carolyn is willing to tarnish such a rare moment of intimacy with her husband for something as superficial as a coach proves the distressing extent of her materialism: so completely preoccupied is she with objects that she forgets to contemplate the transcendent and spiritual.  All in all, this single exchange calls into question our idolization of the American dream.  Though we glorify wealth and stature as the foundational pillars of our national credo, their attainment leaves this couple desperate, unsatisfied, and deeply alone.  As professor Roy M. Anker so penetratingly observes, the Burnhams’s single-minded pursuit of material prosperity has kept them from beholding the “exquisite beauty” of the ordinary human world.

Temporary is the Saddest Word: Youth & Nostalgia in Richard Linklater’s “Everybody Wants Some”


Described as the “spiritual sequel” to his 1993 cult classic Dazed and Confused, Linklater’s latest Everybody Wants Some shares much in common with its cinematic predecessor.  Both wistfully render adolescence, Dazed and Confused, the final days of high school, Everybody Wants Some, the heady anticipation of coming adulthood.  Both burst with the carefree exuberance of youth.  And though each film depicts a very specific moment in historical time, both yearn to capture something universal: the magic of the teenage years.  So though you might be too young to remember mustaches, hysterically short shorts, or disco, Everybody Wants Some will have you affectionately recalling the simpler days of your youth.

everybody wants some opening scene

Told in the delightfully meandering way that is his trademark, Linklater doesn’t offer much in the way of plot.  The film opens on a goofily cute Jake (played to charming effect by an adorable Blake Jenner) cruising through a one-lane country road.  The year, 1980.  Linklater establishes the time period from the first frame: his boyish protagonist sports a super 70s baseball tee and drives a brawny Oldsmobile.  As the hand-tapping rhythms of “My Sharona” thump in the background, the camera circles to the back seat, revealing a milk crate of albums and an old school record player.  Jake, a freshman baseball player on his way to college, is much like the road he travels on: full of possibility.  It’s the weekend before school starts and anything can happen (and most things do).  In the three days before classes, Jake and his teammates boogie at a disco, line dance at a hoe down, mosh at a punk show, and mingle with geeky theater majors at a psychedelic party in the woods- not to mention get lucky an astonishing number of times for a bunch of inexperienced teenagers.  When they’re not chasing girls or finding new ways to fuck with each other, they’re taking bong rips and waxing philosophical about everything from the nature of identity to the meaning of life.

jake & finn

Everybody Wants Some flouts the most basic narrative conventions: there’s no conflict, no climax.  The story certainly doesn’t satisfyingly chart any character’s development.  But this raunchy, rambunctious college flick is more than just a good time- it’s a bittersweet meditation on the transience of youth.  As an adult watching the film, I can’t help but envy Jake: he’s only just beginning college, for the first time tasting the exhilarating independence of adulthood but with very little of the responsibility.  In the coming months, his most pressing obligation will probably be turning in his Shakespeare midterm.  Most likely, his parents are still footing his bills.  But as the unrelenting countdown to the first day of school continually reminds us, time is running out.  Jake stands at a pivotal juncture in his maturity, his first day of college symbolic of his monumental entrance into adulthood.  For four glorious years, “adulthood” will be all-nighters, girls and booze but before long, adulthood will mean venturing into the last frontier, the “real world.”  


This “real world” lingers in the background throughout much of the film.  Though Jake and his teammates possess a zeal for baseball that borders on obsession, none of them harbor any delusions about going pro.  Up until now, baseball has been the singular passion that’s organized their existence; however, after four years of college, they know they’ll have to get jobs like everyone else.  Linklater’s sentimental mix tape hits an elegiac note when we realize growing up often means sacrificing our dreamier goals.  Like Jake, we’ve all had to eventually hang up our baseball gloves.

Everybody Wants Some has been called nostalgic in the best sense but we must remember there’s always a sad quality to nostalgia.  After all, nostalgia is a yearning for the past which-by its very definition-can never be recovered.  So though we fondly reminisce about our first college crush when Jake spends a sweet, romantic evening with Beverley on a lake, we’re heartbreakingly aware that we’ll never again experience anything quite as giddy as those first few days of school.

jake & beverley