Underdeveloped

reviewed Sun, 01 Sep 2002

Anyway, now I have another example [well, two, really, since my father told me about an Edward Albee play he and his wife saw called, The Goat, or Who Is Sylvia?, which is about an architect (played by Bill Pullman) who falls in love with a goat.  (There goes my crush on Bill Pullman.)].  The husband in the outwardly perfect family in One Hour Photo is an architect, and he's a real dick (though at least not a goat aficionado).  The AIA won't be touting this character, who never goes to his kid's soccer games (there's your automatic signifier -- bad dad!), yells at his wife about how it's her fault that he's never home because he has to work long hours so she can make their house look like a magazine spread, yet carries on an affair at beach resorts and fancy hotels.

But, of course, the family (whose name I didn't care enough to remember) looks perfect in their photos, which have been developed for 10 years by Dick Cheney... whoops, Robin Williams (actually, he looks a little less creepy and malevolent than Cheney).  Williams' Sy the Photo Guy takes inordinate pride in his developing lab in a generic, fluorescent-lit, discount megamart (the second such one I've seen in a movie this weekend; both were more immaculate and well-ordered than, probably, any Wal-Mart has ever been even on its opening day).  It's really all he has in his lonely life (see bottom for anecdote with flimsy tie-in).  He becomes obsessed with this family that looks so ideal and loving in the photos he develops of birthday parties, vacations, and other events (copies of all of which he keeps), to the point of imagining himself to be "Uncle" Sy (I suppose it's something of a novelty that he yearns to be part of the whole family rather than just lusting to take the husband's place, à la Unlawful Entry).  When he finds out that architect-dad is a prick, I suppose we're to understand that this revelation that the family is not as picture-perfect as he imagined sends him over the edge into a psychosis that's been simmering underneath his meek, over-friendly exterior.  Or something like that.

I thought the movie was just plain stupid.  It sounds like a good concept, but it's crappily executed.  Only the heavy-handed soundtrack clues us in to what's supposed to be creepy or ominous; certainly nothing on the screen does.  The few genuinely spooky moments in the film have been amply exposed to us by the previews.  Overall, the film has a dull, sterile look, devoid of any visual personality or originality.  Several events on which the plot turns just plain don't make sense -- despite his obsessive pride in and meticulous knowledge of his developer, Sy has evidently overlooked for years one of the machine's basic functions that could get him caught.  Also, when someone is fired, he is generally told to leave immediately, perhaps even escorted out of the building, and he certainly isn't allowed to keep his company keys for several more days while he continues to work.  Sy fires a few opening salvos, so to speak, before he gets started on his really bad shit, and it's not clear why -- presumably he wanted the police to track him down and catch him, yet he tries to escape from them when they do arrive (memo to movie police officers looking for a suspect in a hotel:  have you never seen one of the myriad of movies in which a suspect evades capture by running through the restaurant kitchen?  You may want to think about posting an officer there just in case).  And, at the risk of sounding heartless, Sy's ranting excuse for his psychosis is trite, and inept writer/director Mark Romanek tries so hard to make it subtle that he paradoxically ends up making it blatant.

This could have been a good movie, with a promising premise and with Williams' evident capacity for creepiness, but instead it's an inanity best left by the wayside of summer movies.
 

Okay, here is the tenuously connected anecdote -- sorry for the randomness, but I have a bunch of anecdotes stored up from my recent trip to Kennebunkport, nest of evil where He Who Spawned a Plague Upon the World summers in his sprawling, ostentatious estate and evidently told the hotel, which is a good mile away from his mansion, that they couldn't have a DJ for my aunt's birthday party because the noise bothers him.  I figured that throwing eggs at or mooning Old Man Bush would probably get me arrested on federal charges and no doubt accused of terrorism, so I didn't.

Anyway, here is the anecdote, and I think this is probably the last one (because I have nothing to say about Kennebunkport other than it's a hideous little town full of ersatz, quaint "ye olde shoppes."  And I thought my grandmother had good anecdote potential -- I like to say she may be the only person in Florida who meant to vote for Pat Buchanan in 2000 -- but she was on good behavior and didn't express any of her offensive positions).  In the movie, Sy's loneliness is depicted by Williams sitting alone in his spartan apartment staring glumly at the TV. Which reminded me of the motel where I stayed during the Kennebunkport trip:  the all-too-aptly named Turnpike Motel.  Here's a public service announcement:  Next time you make reservations at a hotel, you may want to ask them some questions you may not have thought of.  Like: "When you say you're near the highway, do you measure that in miles -- or in feet?"  And: "When you say there's food within walking distance, do you mean that purely in the sense of the distance that the average person could walk, or do you mean 'reasonable walking distance for a sane person who cares about their physical safety?'  Also, define 'food.'"

Foolishly, I didn't think to ask these questions.  I spent my first day in Kennebunkport -- I misspoke: six miles away from Kennebunkport -- sitting on my ass watching TV in my room, thinking I could have done this at home for free (although at home, I don't get the all-French channel that shows crappy music videos and boring interview shows with pompous jerks -- no, wait, I do get VH-1 and Larry King Live... but not in French).  This was not intentional.  I didn't have my own rental car and had been dropped off at the motel late the night before.  It was pretty clear then that they weren't kidding about being on the turnpike -- 30 feet behind the motel was the highway, and the view out the front was of the tollbooth (more in the highway than on it).  Actually, the room was surprisingly nice and thankfully free of murderers (after I reserved the room by phone, the motel sent me a confirmation card on which it said all check-ins had to be completed by 10 p.m. -- which they hadn't told me over the phone -- so I called to tell them I wouldn't be getting there until at least 11 p.m.; I got an exasperated sigh, then: "We'll leave the key in the door."

Me: "Is that safe?"
Her: "Oh, no one can get up there."
Me: "Um… if no one can get up there, then how do I get up there?"
Her: "We'll leave a note with instructions."

Anyway, when I got up the next morning, I went for a walk to see what was around (basically, nothing).  I saw a road sign saying to call a number for information about local bus service; I called standing right underneath the sign, and the woman who answered the phone (at what turned out to be the Chamber of Commerce) said there was no local bus service and she didn't know anything about the sign and thought it was "odd" that their number was on it.  So I went back to the motel and asked where I could get food.  My only option turned out to be a turnpike rest stop about a quarter mile away.  What the ace Front Desk staff neglected to tell me was that to get to the Burger King, Popeye's, and Cinnabon that made up this rest stop, I had to cross two highway off-ramps with blind curves and then go through an "exercise" field full of dog poop.  What she should have told me was, "Yes, there's food within walking distance, if you don't mind risking your life for a Whopper."  (Actually, I was okay with risking my life for a Cinnabon.)  Fortunately or otherwise, I haven't had much of an appetite and even less money, so I didn't feel the urge to make too many trips.

I sat in my room and read the area guidebook (which helpfully suggested this moose-locating tip: "Moose are wherever you find them").  Eventually I got so bored that I watched a piece on Branson, MO, on the Travel Channel, which actually made me not want to go to Branson -- somehow, the tackiness just seemed sad instead of laughable (yes, I'm willing to pass up the opportunity to see the Japanese violinist who plays with fireworks and showgirls behind him, and Yakov Smirnoff's theater, and The Lawrence Welk Resort Center and Champagne Theatre).  It seemed absurdly providential that I had eaten only one of the two packets of peanuts Southwest had given us on the flight up, and that my cousin's girlfriend had given me one of hers.  Lunch!  Without having to go through dog poop!

Finally, I devised a pretty stupid plan that my friend Stephen fortunately talked me out of when I called him, saying that he didn't want to see my life turned into a Lifetime movie called Mother, May I Walk to Kennebunkport? and starring Tori Spelling (really, having Tori Spelling play you is possibly the worst fate -- at least, the least dignified one -- you can imagine).

The story from here really qualifies more as depressing than anecdotal, so I'll wrap up with a moral: learn from my mistakes.  Always pack as much food as you can carry whenever you go anywhere.  Exhaustively research hotels and ask for exact measurements of their distance from (and potential obstacles between) amenities, like food procurement or strip clubs, and annoyances, like highways or playgrounds.  Also, find out if they are actually in the town they claim to be in.  Also, find out if anyone will be available after 10 p.m. to help you if, say, your room catches fire or something, and if they have policies like "no cancellations once your stay has started" (I guess this is because when many guests see the motel for the first time, they're not very happy about having to spend the 6 or 7 days they originally reserved), and if their room phones can receive incoming calls.  Also, ask if their vending machine is ever filled with anything less nauseating than Mountain Dew and Dr. Pepper.  Most importantly, always have your own rental car.

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