In We Don’t Live Here Anymore, Jack and
Terry Linden and Hank and Edith Evans have quite a
situation on their hands. All four are good friends,
but, early on in the movie, we take notice that their
relationships with each other are more than just a
little affectionate. They all participate in
adultery—messily swapping partners behind each others
backs—leaving their partners in states of strong
non-confrontational suspicion about the activities they
engage in. Each member of the foursome has their own
attitude towards promiscuity, but, ultimately, theirs is
driven by longing. The movie shows that humans aren’t
only obsessed with some things, but also obsessed with
obsession.
Yes, the subject matter is
unthinkable, albeit real, and the experience is
downright devastating. But, granted those two
matter-of-fact details, I enjoyed We Don’t Live Here
Anymore, through and through. In the end-stretch of
stinky summer-movies, the quiet, thoughtful, independent
film is the one to be cherished. Hollywood has left me
with no choice but to take pleasure in seeing directors
take on wife-swapping and perversion. I feel sad for
them. Maybe I’m awarding this movie brownie-points for
being different, something I could sink my teeth into.
Whatever the reason I’m fond of it seems insignificant,
for it is certainly pure filmmaking.
The movie plays out like magic
realism, with tons of realism and no magic. But it’s
that down-to-earth horror that works to its favor. The
events in We Don’t Live Here Anymore are all
relatively similar. The characters frequently seem
solely concerned with the dirty things they do. I was so
caught up in their cycles of emotions, though, that I
didn’t bristle this. The plot is as biting as that of a
more eventful drama; director John Curran makes everyday
life more stunning than even the most accomplished of
experts in realist cinema.
I often praise the entire
casts of this type of film for delivering “powerhouse
performances.” Face it: superb acting in an independent
ensemble effort is usually inevitable. But, in this
case, I can only praise three of the four leads. Naomi
Watts’ brilliant work is painstaking and challenging.
Peter Krause is interesting and sometimes bitterly
funny. Mark Ruffalo finds a note of subtlety, and vents
about the chaos consuming him in a quiet, effective
manner, throughout the film. Last, and definitely least,
comes one of the few weak links in the film, the
unnatural and exaggerating Laura Dern. She brings such
superficiality to the otherwise engagingly layered
material, which will often prevent viewers from
immersing themselves in “the moment”. Had Dern been
better, or another actress been cast, I think that We
Don’t Live Here Anymore would’ve acquired a higher
level of success.
We Don’t Live Here Anymore
is the third Andre Dubus novel-to-film adaptation to
grace the silver screen, with the other two being last
year’s House of Sand and Fog and 2001’s In the
Bedroom. This is probably the least successful of
the pack, but is still clearly coherent and usually
impacting. Certainly better than the average mainstream
fare or typical art-house production, We Don’t Live
Here Anymore has a good shot at clinching a spot on
my upcoming 2004 edition of “The Summer’s Best”.
-Danny, Bucket Reviews (9.11.2004)