This weekend, my girlfriend and I saw "Broken Flowers," the quirky relationship study on every critic's best-of list and making its way throughout the festival circuit. After having seen this wonderful, introspective movie, I would wholeheartedly recommend it to anyone, especially discerning cinema fans.
If you're looking for happy endings - or endings whatsoever - save yourselves the time. And save us from having to hear your confused chatter throughout. The success of "Broken Flowers" helps buck a larger trend, one that demands simplicity where none really exists. That it doesn't offer every answer is a welcome change from today's multiplex offerings.
"Broken Flowers," written and directed by Jim Jarmusch ("Coffee and Cigarettes," "Ghost Dog"), stars Bill Murray as Don Johnston, a lifelong bachelor just dumped by his latest girlfriend, Julie Delpy. No sooner than Delpy's character, Sherry, departs, Don receives a mysterious pink envelope.
Thinking nothing of it, he ventures next door to his neighbor and friend Winston's (Jeffrey Wright) house. There, the differences between the two couldn't be more clear. Winston is the consummate family man, with a wife, beautiful children and a well-worn home (as compared to Don's massive, yet Spartan, house). After helping Winston track down a Web site to aid his fascination with detective work and novels, Don settles back to open the letter.
Stunned, the already-dry Don reveals that the anonymous letter writer has written that he has a son and that his son has left home to look for him. With little fanfare, a giant monkey wrench has been thrown - anonymously - into Don's life. Winston, of course, is greatly interested in getting to the bottom of the matter, using every detective method at his disposal to determine the letter's origin.
Not willing to play along at first, Don is soon lured into a cross-country mission by Winston, who has planned his quest to visit four of his former flames, each of whom could have been the mother. From town to town, Don meets - with varying enjoyment - his former lovers, played by Sharon Stone, Frances Conroy ("Six Feet Under"), Jessica Lange and Brea Frazier.
Returning home with no answers and a little worse for wear, Don - instead of moving on has been his tradition - has taken the time to reflect on his ways. It is at that point that he has a chance encounter with a young man who may or may not be his son. Again, little is revealed as the ending approaches.
Murray and Wright shine in "Flowers." Jarmusch has delivered an off-beat classic cut from the same mold as "The Royal Tenenbaums," "Magnolia" and "Lost in Translation." As director, Jarmusch coaxed great performances from the ensemble cast, especially from the smaller roles, the bit players surrounding each leg on Don's trip. His soundtrack also drives the episodic nature of the movie. Murray, continuing with his recent track record, turns in yet another fantastic, nuanced performance as the movie's protagonist.
Where Jarmusch and his cast excelled - to the sheer befuddlement of the other theatergoers - was in crafting an adult movie with adult themes and with an adult outcome. No sooner had the final credits started than the husband and wife behind us - the same folks who spent the preceding two hours talking incessantly, misreading every "clue," making gutteral noises and pointing out obvious details ("He's in coach" during an airplane scene) - turned to each other, puzzled. For once, the two chatterboxes had nothing to say. That was until one of them said, "That was weird."
On our way out of the theater, one amateur Roger Ebert cornered me and exclaimed, "Do you know what you just saw!?!" Yes, sir, I did: I saw a movie smart enough to not underestimate its audience. To not wrap everything in a tight, convenient bow in the third reel. To not tack on a happy ending just to please focus groups.
And that's just it: People, these days, want something like that. They want a director to tuck them in, pour them a glass of milk and tell them a bedtime story. But good cinema isn't like that. Why? Because life isn't like that. Life doesn't always offer happy endings. Or endings whatsoever. It just is. Sometimes it's good. Sometimes it's bad. Sometimes it just is.
This same trend, sadly, extends far past good moviemaking. The very culture that demands a convenient, easy-to-follow ending also enjoys paintings by "artists" like Thomas Kinkade or albums by "American Idol" winners and other mindless pop drones. We're living in a paint-by-number society when we could very easily be experiencing true masterpieces.
Jarmusch, well aware of the lowest-common denominator nature of the studio system, has delivered a movie that doesn't talk down to its audience. For that, for captivating, adult filmmaking, "Broken Flowers" should be appreciated for what it is: A great movie.