By Chuck Wilson
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Amy Nicholson
By Carolina Del Busto
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Michael Atkinson
By Calum Marsh
Two blond sisters, their faces inches apart, exchange mock wedding vows in bright sunlight; when they get to the man-and-wife part, they slip knotted-up dandelion rings onto one anothers fingers. Alexander the Lasts opening scene will strike a dispiritingly familiar note in those whove seen Joe Swanbergs previous Nights and Weekends or Hannah Takes the Stairs (or, for that matter, anything by his buddy, Andrew Bujalski): More whimsical rehearsal for grownup life? Really?
Like those flicks, Alexander the Last is an eminently post-graduate, no-budget ensemble flick about fidelity issues and low-grade sexual tension. Alex (Jess Weixler) and Hellen (Amy Seimetz) are two reasonably well-employed sistersAlex is an actress; Hellen takes pictureswith studio apartments. Alex shares hers with husband Elliot (Justin Rice), a musician successful enough to tour and leave her home alone; Hellen makes due with a strategic array of lovers, readily summoned by text-message. A love rectangle develops. Alex finds herself drawn to a studly actor, Jamie (Barlow Jacobs), with whom shes working and who, in verité slacker style, crashes on her couch while Elliot is on the road. In self-defense, she passes him off on to her sistera decision that merely brings yet one more horny, inconstant player into the picture. Elliot returns to a distracted wife and a beefcake-y dude languorously playing the ukulele in his kitchen.
Probably the most meta mumblecore movie yet, Alexander the Last plays at times like Swanbergs ironic acknowledgement of the think pieces even now being written about him. I think we should just, uh, pay attention to where there are question marks, says the frustrated writer of Alexs play, as the actors onstage mercilessly swallow the end of their lines. And, in presumable defense of his decision, in Kissing on the Mouth, to show himself ejaculating onto a helpless shower wall, Swanberg has the plays director ask, earnestly, How do you fake sex? while attempting to choreograph a theatrical consummation scene for Alex and Jamie.
Not that everyone doesnt take their shirt off anyway, eventually. In one startling scene, Swanberg cuts between Alex and Jamie awkwardly rehearsing simulated intercourse and Hellen and Jamie engaging enthusiastically in the real thing. In a set-piece far more formally inventive and emotionally succinct than practically anything this director has produced to date, the psychosexual dynamics that are usually merely passive-aggressively hinted at in the Slackavettes universe are instead neatly, vividly rendered. When, after rehearsal, Alex tells her director Im very exhausted trying to love my husband, it feels like an inarticulate, childish fragment from a different movie entirely.
Elliot comes home toting a digital camera full of pizza boxes he photographed while on tour and, in a merciful act of filmmaking, Alex could give a fuckSwanberg, in Alexander the Last, seems to have finally skated past cute. The married couple reconciles quietly, but convincingly, as do Alex and her sister, mostly because they all decide, toward the end of the movie, up-talk and creative-arts jobs notwithstanding, to become what they inarguably already are: adults.
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