Closer (2004)

Closer, by Carl D. Esbjornson

To call Closer a dark film is to pay it much too high a compliment. The film flatters itself that it is grown-up, adult, sophisticated, that we are somehow led to believe that if we buy into the film's premise (whatever that is) and its jaded, pointless characters that we somehow can pass for a sophisticated audience. Such self-flattery leads to another s-word, self-indulgent, but that too pays the film much too high a compliment, so I continue my search. "Sucks" or "stinks" come close, but do not quite define the film's essence. Eureka! The film is a piece of shit! A word so common, so ordinary yet one that so perfectly captures the overall feeling of a film that makes pretensions to being sophisticated, and attempts to mislead the audience into believing that if you are sufficiently cynical, nasty, self-absorbed, worldly, fucked-up adult only then can you claim to be the member of an elite audience of sophisticates privvy to the high art of this film. But the rest of us bumpkins, philistines, hayseeds, and provincials are not so easily fooled. We have seen enough cow turds and plugged toilets that we know a piece of shit when we see one.

One word about the acting: if you have liked the work of Julia Roberts, Natalie Portman, Jude Law, and Clive Owen in the past, you will not be disappointed here, for they turn in some strong performances, especially Ms. Portman. The funny thing about that is that the acting is so good that it made me hate the film even more, because the alleged "adult" characters in this "adult" love story then become even more convincing, that is to say, more hateful, vile, nasty, crude, and vulgar. The acting is so convincing that you are left absolutely convinced that the only way the film could be redeemed is if they all kill each other in the end and put the rest of the world out of its misery. But they do not kill each other (sorry, I gave away the ending!), leaving you, the viewer, wanting to kill them yourself. Actually, in a scene near the end one character (Clive Owen) does threaten to kill the other (Jude Law) if he ever again even comes near his so-called wife (Julia Roberts), which is laughable because by that time they have already had so many affairs with each other in what amounts to a kind of game of sexual musical chairs that you are left begging the question: why would it even matter if, one more time, the Jude Law character had another affair with the Julia Roberts character and the Clive Owen character returned the favor? By this point, I was past caring. Finally, the other bad effect of the film added to the already bad effects of wasting two hours watching it and being left with a horrible aftertaste is that I have lost a good deal of respect for Julia Roberts, Jude Law, Clive Owen, and Natalie Portman and question their professional judgment for agreeing to appear in such a film. That's especially a shame in the case of Ms. Portman, who won me over with a bravura performance in Garden State. Now she will need to win me over again--and I do not anticipate that will occur in the soon-to-released Star Wars movie. The only other good part about the film is that it actually spared us from viewing any sex scenes, which, unfortunately, are replaced by very crude, graphic language in the dialogue describing the sexual liaisons between the characters, but at least we did not have to watch them as well, thus sparing me from the necessity of spending half the film puking from watching bad sex.

The script writer, to put it as nicely and delicately as I possibly can, should find another line of work.

Rating: 0 stars out of 4.