“Beatriz at Dinner”: It’s a hero’s journey, disguised. There’s an ordinary world. Beatriz lives in a modest part of California, and hangs out with her goat. She gives massages. She believes some silly things about healing powers and the spirit.
You might want to think of her as saintly. But she isn’t that. Mike White is aware. Beatriz is really like Laura Dern’s character in “Enlightened”: she’s a passive-aggressive mess. We don’t for a moment doubt that that goat would be sort of annoying to the neighbors. And: It actually isn’t professional to sob about your pet goat when you’re on the job. Beatriz is genuinely exasperating. That’s part of the craftiness of Mike White’s virtuosic brain.
A summons to an Enchanted World: While at work, Beatriz discovers that her car has broken down. She has to stay, for a while, at Connie Britton’s mansion. She offers to remain in her broken car and wait for a friend. But Connie Britton, in a fit of white guilt, says, “No, no, you must attend this dinner party I’m hosting.” (Connie’s character is at least moderately well-intentioned, and Connie and Mike White understand this. It’s a beautiful portrait.)
So: A loony masseuse finds herself at a castle full of self-absorbed white people. This isn’t the Forest of Arden; it’s not Boy Meets Girl; it’s not Spy Meets Spy. Part of Mike White’s greatness is that he casts his eye on odd relationships--little, tense allegiances that you wouldn’t think to put front and center in a movie. No one gets married in “Beatriz at Dinner.” There are no breakups; there’s no murder mystery. It’s about “the help” and the boss, and you won’t find anything in the way of catharsis here.
There’s a monster in the Enchanted World, and it's rudeness. The rudeness takes many forms. John Lithgow assumes Beatriz is a waitress, then gruffly says, “Well, you were hovering, so I just figured.” (And as awful as John is, he isn’t entirely wrong. Again: genius.) The white ladies, who would like very much to think of themselves as Good People, gather over an iPhone to stare at various warts photographed in/on a starlet’s private parts. It becomes clear that Lithgow is demolishing homes, in Mexico, to make a hotel. And he kills elephants in Africa. And Connie Britton says, “Beatriz is like Jesus; I mean, almost literally, birds fly down from the sky and land on her shoulders.” This seems nice, maybe, but of course it’s another way of not-seeing-Beatriz-as-an-actual person.
In her splendid looniness, Beatriz tries to combat all the piggishness she sees around her. (A fool! That is what she is, like it or not.) She will bring out her acoustic guitar and evangelize about the wonders of nature for John Lithgow, who clearly does not care. (In her obtuseness, Beatriz is like someone out of Jane Austen; the social awkwardness, the refusal to see basic social cues, might make us think of certain Lady Catherine moments from “Pride and Prejudice.”) Beatriz will give a long, tedious, and unsolicited speech about her thoughts on healing powers--at the dinner table. Beatriz will soliloquize about goat’s milk, or cranberry juice, or something, to the DuPlass brother, as a homespun remedy for kidney stones; she will go on and on, though it’s clear that the DuPlass brother does not want to hear her. Beatriz will speak about “the sickness of the planet”--and she will choose not to note the amused, stupefied glances thrown her away.
None of this can end well. The monster wins. As Beatriz becomes fully aware of the depths of John Lithgow’s depravity, she fantasizes about murdering him. We see her wielding a letter opener as a dagger. But of course that’s not a choice the weak would make, or make regularly. Instead, it’s far more plausible to imagine that Beatriz would throw up her hands in despair and walk out into the sea, to her (own) death. And that’s the brilliant “Thelma and Louise”-ish ending for this movie. Something from a fairy tale. Beatriz discerns how fucked the planet is, and decides she has one bit of agency available to her: the choice to end her own life. The final moments seem to be something more than kitchen-sink realism; Beatriz’s melding with the ocean feels like Hans Christian Andersen material. You don’t see it coming. It gives meaning to the preceding ninety minutes: Here’s why we have been paying close attention to awkwardness at dinner. It’s because--though we hadn’t had the realization--all along we have been watching the story of a suicide. (Look at “Fruitvale Station” for another example of a minutely-detailed recent movie that delivers a major jolt in its final act.)
“Beatriz at Dinner” is “Enlightened”--but “Enlightened” with a relentlessly brave and unhappy conclusion. Variations on a theme. See it! If you have not--already. Surprises, exquisite tragicomic tension, subtle philosophy, depth of character--These are all among the many miraculous, invaluable, and graceful gifts we receive, and receive pretty damn consistently, from the brilliant Mike White.
You might want to think of her as saintly. But she isn’t that. Mike White is aware. Beatriz is really like Laura Dern’s character in “Enlightened”: she’s a passive-aggressive mess. We don’t for a moment doubt that that goat would be sort of annoying to the neighbors. And: It actually isn’t professional to sob about your pet goat when you’re on the job. Beatriz is genuinely exasperating. That’s part of the craftiness of Mike White’s virtuosic brain.
A summons to an Enchanted World: While at work, Beatriz discovers that her car has broken down. She has to stay, for a while, at Connie Britton’s mansion. She offers to remain in her broken car and wait for a friend. But Connie Britton, in a fit of white guilt, says, “No, no, you must attend this dinner party I’m hosting.” (Connie’s character is at least moderately well-intentioned, and Connie and Mike White understand this. It’s a beautiful portrait.)
So: A loony masseuse finds herself at a castle full of self-absorbed white people. This isn’t the Forest of Arden; it’s not Boy Meets Girl; it’s not Spy Meets Spy. Part of Mike White’s greatness is that he casts his eye on odd relationships--little, tense allegiances that you wouldn’t think to put front and center in a movie. No one gets married in “Beatriz at Dinner.” There are no breakups; there’s no murder mystery. It’s about “the help” and the boss, and you won’t find anything in the way of catharsis here.
There’s a monster in the Enchanted World, and it's rudeness. The rudeness takes many forms. John Lithgow assumes Beatriz is a waitress, then gruffly says, “Well, you were hovering, so I just figured.” (And as awful as John is, he isn’t entirely wrong. Again: genius.) The white ladies, who would like very much to think of themselves as Good People, gather over an iPhone to stare at various warts photographed in/on a starlet’s private parts. It becomes clear that Lithgow is demolishing homes, in Mexico, to make a hotel. And he kills elephants in Africa. And Connie Britton says, “Beatriz is like Jesus; I mean, almost literally, birds fly down from the sky and land on her shoulders.” This seems nice, maybe, but of course it’s another way of not-seeing-Beatriz-as-an-actual person.
In her splendid looniness, Beatriz tries to combat all the piggishness she sees around her. (A fool! That is what she is, like it or not.) She will bring out her acoustic guitar and evangelize about the wonders of nature for John Lithgow, who clearly does not care. (In her obtuseness, Beatriz is like someone out of Jane Austen; the social awkwardness, the refusal to see basic social cues, might make us think of certain Lady Catherine moments from “Pride and Prejudice.”) Beatriz will give a long, tedious, and unsolicited speech about her thoughts on healing powers--at the dinner table. Beatriz will soliloquize about goat’s milk, or cranberry juice, or something, to the DuPlass brother, as a homespun remedy for kidney stones; she will go on and on, though it’s clear that the DuPlass brother does not want to hear her. Beatriz will speak about “the sickness of the planet”--and she will choose not to note the amused, stupefied glances thrown her away.
None of this can end well. The monster wins. As Beatriz becomes fully aware of the depths of John Lithgow’s depravity, she fantasizes about murdering him. We see her wielding a letter opener as a dagger. But of course that’s not a choice the weak would make, or make regularly. Instead, it’s far more plausible to imagine that Beatriz would throw up her hands in despair and walk out into the sea, to her (own) death. And that’s the brilliant “Thelma and Louise”-ish ending for this movie. Something from a fairy tale. Beatriz discerns how fucked the planet is, and decides she has one bit of agency available to her: the choice to end her own life. The final moments seem to be something more than kitchen-sink realism; Beatriz’s melding with the ocean feels like Hans Christian Andersen material. You don’t see it coming. It gives meaning to the preceding ninety minutes: Here’s why we have been paying close attention to awkwardness at dinner. It’s because--though we hadn’t had the realization--all along we have been watching the story of a suicide. (Look at “Fruitvale Station” for another example of a minutely-detailed recent movie that delivers a major jolt in its final act.)
“Beatriz at Dinner” is “Enlightened”--but “Enlightened” with a relentlessly brave and unhappy conclusion. Variations on a theme. See it! If you have not--already. Surprises, exquisite tragicomic tension, subtle philosophy, depth of character--These are all among the many miraculous, invaluable, and graceful gifts we receive, and receive pretty damn consistently, from the brilliant Mike White.
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