20. Todd Solondz’ Palindromes (2004)
One of the two or three candidates for contemporary U.S. cinema’s most brilliant unsung auteur, Todd Solondz has, since 1995’s Welcome to the Dollhouse, crafted four singularly unpleasant comedies that excavate the fertile grounds of suburban angst (1). But what separates Solondz’ black comedies of middle class anomie from the smugness of Alan Ball’s similarly-themed work is his ear for realistically human dialogue and his fierce compassion for, and commitment to the integrity of, his characters. What elevates 2004’s Palindromes to the top of his oeuvre is the intensity of the sympathy at its core. It’s a culminating moment for the director in which his scarred humanism and caustically satirical eye harmonize perfectly. It’s wrenchingly tragic and blisteringly funny in the same breath.
By often mischaracterizing him as a sadist or misanthrope, Solondz’ critics have continuously failed to distinguish between the author and his characters or between his subjects and themes. Sadism and misanthropy are issues of abiding interest to Solondz, but only the most superficial reading of his work could conclude that he, as a filmmaker, is as contemptuous or malevolent as some of his characters. He extends even the most retched of humanity (pedophiles, murderers, would-be rapists) the decency of an emotionally accurate portrait, allowing his creations to speak unfettered by political correctness or narrative convention.
The shy daughter of well-to-do liberals, Palindromes’ Aviva decides at 13 that what she wants, more than anything in the world, is to have a baby. An exceedingly brief, fumbling sexual interlude leads to pregnancy, and the contented girl’s mother (Ellen Burstyn) cajoles her into having an abortion. Disconsolate after the procedure, Aviva – unaware that surgical complications have left her barren – runs away from home, encountering a pedophilic truck driver and a foster family of evangelical Christians on her journey toward another pregnancy. The wit and candor of the script are classically Solondzian in their audacity, but his most profound statement lay in the film’s casting: over the course of Palindromes, Aviva is played by eight uniformly brilliant actors of various genders, ethnicities, ages and dimensions. Aviva’s appearance and voice change every few scenes, but her desire for motherhood and foggy understanding of adulthood are ever consistent. The trick may have been used decades ago by Bunuel in That Obscure Object of Desire (1977), and more recently by Todd Haynes in the exasperating Dylan-hymn I’m Not There (2007), but Solondz thoroughly weds the potential gimmick to the underlying theme of his work: the existence of an inflexible core within us, which is heedless of our attempts at reinvention and self-definition.
As Aviva’s cousin, Mark, cynically claims at film’s end: “People always end up the way they started out. No one ever changes. They think they do, but they don’t… You might lose some weight, your face might clear up, get a body tan, a breast enlargement, a sex change … makes no difference. Essentially, from in front, from behind, whether you’re 13 or 50, you’ll always be the same.” The idea is anathema to the American narrative’s ideal of dynamic characterizations, asserted most obnoxiously in the didacticisms of screenwriting gurus Robert McKee and Syd Field. We go to the movies to watch fictitious people change, in an attempt to renounce the knowledge that we most likely will not. This is not an entirely unhealthy proposition, but the nearly complete absence of alternative characterizations is disproportionate to human experience.
Again, critics may confuse Solondz with his misanthropic creation Mark. Though the two share a general understanding of human psychology (Solondz characters are static by rule), they differ in their philosophical assessments of the self’s perpetuity. Mark’s defeatism is Solondz’ surrender and acceptance. To audiences and critics queasy at the prospect of zero-growth characters, the difference would appear negligible. Mark might deem the shared conception a tyranny of selfhood; Solondz, however, using the full weight of his story and characters, unearths an appreciation for human frailty from the contention that we are essentially who we are for the bulk of our existence. Human lives would prove hopelessly erratic and uncentered if we continually subjected ourselves to the redemptions, epiphanies and upheavals that masquerade as growth in our narrative art. The human condition, Solondz argues, is best honored via faithful, compassionate observation, rather than idealistic reshuffling prompted by misguided quests for meaning.
Notes:
1 – Larry Clark would be the other. Expect reevaluations of both in the coming decades.
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