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Something’s Gotta Give

Directed by Nancy Meyers

USA, 2003

No, It Doesn’t

Keaton and Nicholson: Must they? (Photo: Columbia Pictures)

Something’s Gotta Give, the new romantic comedy that stars Diane Keaton, Jack Nicholson, and Keanu Reeves, immediately posits itself as a contender for one of the worst films of all time. It begins with a badly photographed, atrociously scored opening scene that has nothing whatsoever to do with the remainder of the movie. Various well-dressed, attractive young women parade around New York after dark to the tune of some generic, whitewashed equivalent of hip-hop. None of these women are seen again beyond this ridiculous, unpleasantly sleazy montage—our first clue that writer-producer-director Nancy Meyers (a woman of slender talents) has made her film via committee.

The half-hour that follows is awful in an inflated, sitcom sort of style, or lack of style. The film’s ending, which I shall shortly give away to save you from two hours of sheer hell, manages to be one of the most insulting and idiotic “resolutions” to deface a mainstream movie since the Jon Peters era of Barbra Streisand’s career. What woman in her right mind would throw away the beautiful Keanu Reeves in favor of the lumpish nightmare Nicholson? Yet that’s precisely what Meyers requires Keaton to do. After the movie ended, I stood in the Loews Meridian lobby with a couple of other critics. We observed a moment of silence in mutual shock. “Was it my imagination,” I finally asked, “or was that ending unforgivable?” My companions concurred.

Aside from the lunacy of Keaton’s unconvincing last-minute switch, there’s the loathsomeness of SGG’s final scene. Two couples, one young, one in late middle age, and an infant occupy a table in a swank restaurant. The couples say nothing; they don’t have to—a bland pop song on the soundtrack fills everything in. All we have to do is watch the baby be cute, as presumably we bask in the afterglow of how “right” and “just” the ultimate pairing-off must be. For whom did Meyers conceive this smug, commodity-fetishist enterprise? For schizophrenics weaned on Neil Simon, Nora Ephron, and the Clintons?

If the love scenes between Keaton and Reeves weren’t so unpredictably compelling, then Meyers’ repugnant knife-twist at the end might not carry quite so many frissons of revulsion. Reeves plays Dr. Julian Mercer, a compassionate, cultured chap who admires Keaton’s playwright character Erica Barry first for her words, then for the lady herself. Utterly believable, Reeves betrays no trace of his Matrix or urban drifter personas. He gives a restrained, mature performance. It’s easy to see how Erica can allow Julian to sweep her away. What’s unacceptable is how Meyers denies Julian any trace of humanity in the end. She presents a wonderful man, then tells us that he doesn’t matter. Her decision isn’t merely inept; it’s chilling.

Keanu, better than usual (Photo: Columbia Pictures)

Sandwiched between the lampoon beginning and the fascist denouement, sections of the middle are…sort of good. In places. Amusing comic bits are strewn here and yonder. More importantly, Keaton, who has done herself few favors as an actress since parting company with Woody Allen, reminds us that she’s still capable of great acting on occasion. Initially implacable, her Erica goes through an extended bout of tears, periodically bursting into laughter, then back into tears again, and sometimes both laughing and crying at once. Keaton pulls off this difficult maneuver masterfully. Yet her appearance, despite a tastefully coordinated wardrobe, frequently seems cadaverous. At 57, Keaton hasn’t aged well. This once ravishing actress looks fearfully ravaged. It’s bracing to see Annie Hall grown old.

“Mary Wilkie, where are you?” (Photo: Columbia Pictures)

I honestly don’t want to pen a word about Nicholson (his nude scene here ranks among 2003’s most sickening cinematic images, second only to Alec Baldwin’s assault on a pregnant woman in The Cooler) therefore I’ll wrap it up with how Meyers wastes Amanda Peet and Frances McDormand.

Made to look ugly, the gorgeous Peet doesn’t seem to be the same creature who gave last year’s Igby Goes Down one of its most deeply felt, moving, and original performances. Meyers, besides saddling Peet with a hideous pair of beauty obliterating sunglasses in the early scenes, casts this young actress in bimbo mode. As Keaton’s daughter and Nicholson’s paramour, Peet performs as blandly as any sorority sister plucked off campus to be Hollywood non-entity of the week.

As for McDormand, what’s she doing in this? She’s supposed to be a professor of Women’s Studies at Columbia as well as Keaton’s sister. McDormand, in the narrow constructs of Meyers’ twittering screenplay, cannot possibly be either. Worse still, McDormand can’t adapt to the forced, shrill sitcom pitch that Meyers imagines as drawing room comedy for stupids. Watching this, I remembered one of the first times I saw McDormand: she was a serious, understated, tightly controlled presence in Ken Loach’s worthy political thriller Hidden Agenda. What happened to that woman, I wondered, and will she ever find her way back?

During the PTFF last September, I met a reader who asked me why don’t I write more often about major studio releases. Something’s Gotta Give, a joint by-product of Warner Bros. and Columbia Pictures, pretty much explains it. – NPT

December 10, 2003

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