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Raves at Sundance are not to be trusted. Sundance's "darkly comic," "sardonic" or dreaded "Tarantinoesqe" offerings, as well as its drippy Brothers McMullens and Spitfire Grills, pummel us with the painfully hip and obnoxiously normal. The indie reliance on irony and violence is really just as lazy as the Hollywood reliance on breasts and car chases, and often less creative. In short, Sundance hype means nothing. But thank God there are exceptions. Sunday, which won best dramatic film at Sundance, is a refreshing change from the frequent triteness of indie films. Devoid of hip fatuousness, comedic violence or gorgeous people doing heroin, the film is an anomaly of the market. Clever, wonderfully acted and superbly written, Sunday has a style and pace all its own, and is derivative of nothing except the quagmire of human alienation. It is impervious to imitation. With neither sympathy nor overt harshness, the film opens in a New York City men's shelter, where residents begin their Sunday morning gabbing and wisecracking over breakfast. The film sets up its environment so specifically that we are, at first, unaware of our shy protagonist, Oliver (David Suchet)--a bespectacled, chubby man separated from the others. When Oliver scuttles out of the seedy abode and wanders the streets of Queens, the movie unfolds into a story of mistaken identity. Walking the same route as Oliver is an aging British actress named Madeleine (Lisa Harrow), who, though lovely and accomplished, has been delegated to "living-dead mutant roles." When she mistakes Oliver for acclaimed film director Matthew Delacorta, she anxiously flags him down and invites him to lunch. Oliver, nervously going along with her error, agrees to go. He ends up in her apartment, where she serves him wine and begs for a story. Telling the tale of a destitute man who once had a marriage, a family and a middle-manageme job, Oliver reveals his actual life (perhaps) to the woman. Madeleine first appears suspicious, then comes to believe that Oliver's story is admirable method research for a future film. But then she tells her story and reveals her reality (or so we think), a much more sinister admission than Oliver's, but equally duplicitous. Disturbed by Madeleine but not afraid to be seduced by her, Oliver flees when Madeleine's strange husband and adopted daughter pop in unannounced. Oliver is confused but drawn to Madeliene, and vica versa, leading to an intertwining of stories that we are never sure are true. From shabby destitution to unique elegance to repulsion to sympathy, Sunday is mysterious without being overly precious and meaningful without being pretentious. Instead of shocking the viewer with violence or specific harsh realities like incest or drug abuse, Sunday titillates with structure. Director Jonathan Nossiter quietly builds his material to both reveal and conceal the darker connotations of his characters' surreptitious behavior. In addition, he contrasts an unsparing picture of dirty toilets and ugly, deserted streets with an elegant, engrossing script that is unforced and unafraid of being truly thoughtful and lyrical. The nuances are so potent that the film begs a second viewing for closer explication. But with such a bleak, unromanticized picture, will anyone want to see it even once? Those anticipating a film with Cameron Diaz, Eric Stoltz or old hipsters like Burt Reynolds will be disappointed. Sunday does not contain people whom we can joyfully watch enacting perversions. As the excellent actors in Sunday are, for the most part, unrecognizable, they are perfectly elusive in their personas. Suchet is dignified yet shabby and squirelly--someone we genuinely feel uncomfortable about. Harrow is at first flighty and charming, then beautiful, then somewhat salacious. When the two have sex, it is strangely shocking in its animalistic need, particularly when we see Suchet's pants around his knees. We're not sure what to make of their tryst, other than that it's a well-needed release, because we don't know how we feel about them. We don't fall in love with these characters regardless of their actions. We don't delight in their antics--they are almost insufferable--yet we are enrapt. The actors are so poignant and raw we can't help but see something of ourselves in them, which leaves us not moist-eyed, but bemused and personally disturbed. Sunday feels more like a fascinating short story you stumble upon than a Sundance film. It is more Dostoevsky than Scorsese or, thankfully, Tarantino. Though Sundance is about as trustworthy as the Blockbuster Video awards (Blockbuster at least recognizes the merits of Kingpin and Jim Carrey), this winner should be seen. |
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