Skip to main content

Sex, Lies, and iPhone Footage

 It's rare for me to gasp in a movie theater, but "Fair Play" did the trick. I also audibly groaned--as in, "God, no, don't open that door"--more than once.


Luke and Emily work together at a hedge fund. Secretly, they're dating. A position becomes available--and it's rumored that Luke is in the running. But, in fact, he isn't; after he celebrates (prematurely), he learns that the job has gone to his girlfriend.

Luke and Emily think they can withstand this news--but are they being rational? Luke begins reading self-help--"Habits of Highly Effective People"-ish books--and Emily mocks him. Luke then says, quietly, "People don't take you seriously at the office because you dress like a fucking cupcake."

Emily's social habits become a problem. She joins several male colleagues at a strip club, then tries to "charm" Luke with a tasteless joke she has learned. ("At this one fraternity, the new recruits had to fuck their classmates, and the classmates wore bags over their heads. And this one guy does the deed, and then the bag comes off, and he discovers that he has FUCKED HIS SISTER. He has fucked his own sister!!!!")

What goes around comes around. Perhaps nursing the wound from the "cupcake" remark, Emily finds herself making a disclosure: "Luke, the boss doesn't want you around. You were a pity hire. He thinks you're not cut out for this--and he's just in a war of attrition, he is waiting for you to get the message on your own...."

For two hours, you wonder just how awful this can get--and the answer is both surprising and inevitable. I loved the final scene, I didn't see it coming, and I thought, yes, that makes sense.

Also, one grace note involves Emily's phone conversations with her mother. These scenes almost become "caricature" moments--but I thought they were funny and smart.

And hurray for Alden Ehrenreich, finding a great role! He is an inspiration. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...