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People Like Us (2012)
Chris Pine, Elizabeth Banks, Olivia Wilde, Michelle Pfeiffer
Dramatic irony is a literary device giving the audience important information that characters in the film don’t have. It can be used for comic effect, as when one character, unaware of what’s really going on, utters what he thinks is helpful advice but in the context of the actual story is unintentional double entendre. It can be used for tragic effect, as when one character swears he will kill the person responsible, unaware of what the audience knows: the person responsible is someone dear. At its worst, it’s every episode of Three’s Company; at its best, it’s Romeo and Juliet.
The trouble with dramatic irony is that it’s too easy. Wielded by unskilled hands, it’s cheap and manipulative, creating tension for the audience that could be alleviated if the characters on screen would only do what intelligent, decent people in real life would do. The main character in People Like Us is Sam, played by Chris Pine, who has the necessary intelligence but never the decency, and while the indecency is a character flaw that makes the movie possible and is therefore forgivable, there comes a moment—make that several moments—where he knows the truth can not only redeem him but also change the lives of his sister and nephew, and he allows the moment to pass. Beyond that moment, any hope for reconciliation with the audience is pretty much lost, no matter how forgiving the characters themselves may be.
Sam’s father, a celebrated and famous rock-and-roll record producer, has died, and there doesn’t seem to be much in the will for his mother or for him. But shortly after the funeral, Sam meets with his father’s lawyer, who hands him a shaving kit stuffed with $150,000 in cash and tells him it was his father’s wish that Sam deliver this to Frankie, a sister Sam never knew he had.
Frankie (Elizabeth Banks) has it tough. A recovering alcoholic, she does the best she can for Josh, but Josh has problems in school, the kind of problems that get students expelled. The money from her father could go a long way toward moving Josh to a nicer neighborhood and possibly paying for schooling that will get Frankie out of her job as a bartender. Rather than introduce himself and hand the money over, Sam becomes part of their lives without telling them who he is, a kind of mysterious, sudden friend out of nowhere who takes an interest in Frankie and her son.
It mostly works, except that where Frankie and Josh are wide open and vulnerable, Sam strings them along with sustained lies, and as the audience becomes fonder of Frankie, it becomes necessary to be less fond of Sam. This is not a good dynamic for the audience and film. When I realized that the big reveal just wasn’t coming until far, far into the film, I stopped stressing about it: I disengaged from the main character and instead hoped for the best for the secondary character. I had a feeling things would work out for Frankie, but I no longer cared about Sam’s issues or his increasingly irredeemable soul. I can’t believe the writers or director ever meant for me to divorce myself from their main character, but what did they expect, and how did they think I’d have any other choice?
It’s too bad. The actors all do their darndest, especially Elizabeth Banks, who has the toughest job. Frankie is keeping all her bowling pins in the air, but she’s constantly aware that they could come crashing down at any moment. Maintaining the juggling act while also clinging to a seemingly tenuous sobriety takes everything Frankie’s got, and there’s a weary-but-determined, constant near-panicky note that Banks holds deftly and sensitively. Whatever this movie’s problems are, it’s not because of any of the acting.
In the movie of my life, I am walking out of a theater after another terribly disappointing film. I say aloud (because that’s what people in movies do), “I will never, ever go to another film if the only apparent, interesting element is a lead actress I admire.” The audience knows better, and its suspicions are confirmed when the camera, following my dejected steps through the lobby, lingers on one movie poster labeled COMING SOON. It’s Pitch Perfect starring Anna Kendrick.
5/10 (IMDb rating)
50/100 (Criticker rating; slight bump for Elizabeth Banks)
Chris Pine, Elizabeth Banks, Olivia Wilde, Michelle Pfeiffer
Dramatic irony is a literary device giving the audience important information that characters in the film don’t have. It can be used for comic effect, as when one character, unaware of what’s really going on, utters what he thinks is helpful advice but in the context of the actual story is unintentional double entendre. It can be used for tragic effect, as when one character swears he will kill the person responsible, unaware of what the audience knows: the person responsible is someone dear. At its worst, it’s every episode of Three’s Company; at its best, it’s Romeo and Juliet.
The trouble with dramatic irony is that it’s too easy. Wielded by unskilled hands, it’s cheap and manipulative, creating tension for the audience that could be alleviated if the characters on screen would only do what intelligent, decent people in real life would do. The main character in People Like Us is Sam, played by Chris Pine, who has the necessary intelligence but never the decency, and while the indecency is a character flaw that makes the movie possible and is therefore forgivable, there comes a moment—make that several moments—where he knows the truth can not only redeem him but also change the lives of his sister and nephew, and he allows the moment to pass. Beyond that moment, any hope for reconciliation with the audience is pretty much lost, no matter how forgiving the characters themselves may be.
Sam’s father, a celebrated and famous rock-and-roll record producer, has died, and there doesn’t seem to be much in the will for his mother or for him. But shortly after the funeral, Sam meets with his father’s lawyer, who hands him a shaving kit stuffed with $150,000 in cash and tells him it was his father’s wish that Sam deliver this to Frankie, a sister Sam never knew he had.
Frankie (Elizabeth Banks) has it tough. A recovering alcoholic, she does the best she can for Josh, but Josh has problems in school, the kind of problems that get students expelled. The money from her father could go a long way toward moving Josh to a nicer neighborhood and possibly paying for schooling that will get Frankie out of her job as a bartender. Rather than introduce himself and hand the money over, Sam becomes part of their lives without telling them who he is, a kind of mysterious, sudden friend out of nowhere who takes an interest in Frankie and her son.
It mostly works, except that where Frankie and Josh are wide open and vulnerable, Sam strings them along with sustained lies, and as the audience becomes fonder of Frankie, it becomes necessary to be less fond of Sam. This is not a good dynamic for the audience and film. When I realized that the big reveal just wasn’t coming until far, far into the film, I stopped stressing about it: I disengaged from the main character and instead hoped for the best for the secondary character. I had a feeling things would work out for Frankie, but I no longer cared about Sam’s issues or his increasingly irredeemable soul. I can’t believe the writers or director ever meant for me to divorce myself from their main character, but what did they expect, and how did they think I’d have any other choice?
It’s too bad. The actors all do their darndest, especially Elizabeth Banks, who has the toughest job. Frankie is keeping all her bowling pins in the air, but she’s constantly aware that they could come crashing down at any moment. Maintaining the juggling act while also clinging to a seemingly tenuous sobriety takes everything Frankie’s got, and there’s a weary-but-determined, constant near-panicky note that Banks holds deftly and sensitively. Whatever this movie’s problems are, it’s not because of any of the acting.
In the movie of my life, I am walking out of a theater after another terribly disappointing film. I say aloud (because that’s what people in movies do), “I will never, ever go to another film if the only apparent, interesting element is a lead actress I admire.” The audience knows better, and its suspicions are confirmed when the camera, following my dejected steps through the lobby, lingers on one movie poster labeled COMING SOON. It’s Pitch Perfect starring Anna Kendrick.
5/10 (IMDb rating)
50/100 (Criticker rating; slight bump for Elizabeth Banks)