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Punch-Drunk Love
(Reviewed October 1, 2002)
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Honestly, I'm stunned. I never would have thought that any movie could replace the abominably noxious "Forty Days and Forty Nights" as my pick for "Worst Movie of 2002."
I'm tempted to stand outside theaters on opening day to watch Adam Sandler fans emerge from screenings looking confused, betrayed and positively enraged. Every one of them will want a refund. Many may want blood. The ones who didn't get the word that Sandler is supposed to "act" in this movie will be shocked at the complete lack of laughs, in what is supposed to be an edgy black comedy. Director/writer Paul Thomas Anderson may have been trying to pull a Todd Solondz ("Welcome the the Dollhouse," "Happiness") here, but only proves how incredibly hard it must be to produce unsettling humor that does not come across as forced, fake and artsy-fartsy.
Sandler fans who DID get the word that he would be attempting to emote here (as opposed to mugging and goofing) will be no less frustrated. That's partially because Sandler is no Olivier--heck, he's not even a Steve Martin--but mainly because the guy he plays is not so much a character as a completely artificial, unbelievable, and basically uninteresting writer's construct. The entire movie seems so ad-libbed and pointless that it feels like a bad first draft written by a guy who absolutely hated what he was doing, but who felt obligated to pound out new pages until the pile was tall enough to shoot.
That couldn't-care-less attitude about the loser-in-love plot is best typified by the fact that Emily Watson appears as a woman whose attraction to Sandler is utterly and wholly inexplicable. There is not enough suspension of disbelief in the history of the universe to account for this seemingly normal woman to fall for a guy who is borderline retarded, socially inept, easily intimidated, prone to rage against inanimate objects, conversationally clueless and financially unsuccessful. (If that happened in the real world, a lot more comic-book fans would have girlfriends.)
Even the technical aspects of the movie are substandard. Lots of jarring hand-held camera work. Atrocious lighting throughout. Many scenes overlaid with soundtrack music that is so aggravatingly loud as to completely smother the dialog. Even if all of this comes under the heading of "lousy-on-purpose," a la Dogma-style filmmaking, I'm sorry--bad is still bad.
Look, I know what you're thinking. If you liked Anderson's "Boogie Nights" (or even if you're like me and didn't), you can't help having some misplaced affection for the guy who gave the world a couple of drool-inducing Heather Graham nude scenes. Well, folks, nobody's naked in this one--except critic's-darling emperor Anderson, who has absolutely no clothes at all.
Back Row Grade: F-minus, minus, minus...
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