Seattlest at Sundance: Take Four
The big Seattle news at Sundance was Humpday. Late Monday night, Lynn Shelton's film got a mid-six figure deal. Apparently, Shelton had her pick of the litter, as there were five other offers and a protracted bidding war. But she ends up with "an unorthodox release plan [that] will see Magnolia [Pictures] launch the pic on video-on-demand before an August theatrical release."
On to the actual review: Humpday is the mumblecore bromance about two old friends whose lives took very different routes. Ben (Mark Duplass) is happily married in Seattle (in whatever neighborhood John Burbank was running for office last year), while Andrew (Joshua Leonard) has been traveling the world as an artist and all-around scalawag. Andrew shows up at Ben's door and they pick up where they left off. Then one dionysian night, after much drinking, they decide to make the most profound art-porn ever, straight dudes straight-balling--and what follows is them trying not to pussy out.
The general story arc was plotted by Shelton, but in true mumblecore style, all the spot-on dude dialogue was improvised by the actors. Thankfully, the female characters are also fully fleshed out, and if anything, are more adult than the man-children at the center of the story. The film is true to its locale; the Stranger gets its name-drops, as does Hump (Seattle's HumpFest), and Island Video. Even Edith Macefield's house has a cameo. This is a movie about the small moments, and Shelton and her cast nail them.
The instant alternative title for Cold Souls is Being Paul Giamatti, since Sophie Barthes' debut film could easily be a Charlie Kaufmann premise starring America's schlubheart. Giamatti acts as a version of himself--cranky, uptight, dour, and neurotic--tortured by the psychic toll of playing Uncle Vanya. After his agent refers him to a New Yorker article, Paul contacts a soul storage service, which allows the customer to unburden himself via quick and easy soul removal using something that looks like an MRI machine.
Meanwhile, in Russia, there's a growing black market for souls; a soul-trafficking ring is selling Russian souls to Americans by way of soul mules. For the deep, philosophical matter at hand, it's a relatively light film, and if anything we wish Barthes had gone full Kaufmann, and taken it to the next wacky-yet-logical level. The premise is there, as is the metaphor--it's clear this soul transfer is some sort of metaphor for the acting experience of giving yourself completely to a role--it's just not fully fleshed out. Of course we love us some Paul Giamatti, but we concur with an acquaintance who said, "Cold Souls left me lukewarm."
The final film we saw on Wednesday was the world premiere of Shrink, starring Kevin Spacey as Henry, a Hollywood psychiatrist to the stars who has clients throughout the industry--writers, super-agents, directors, washed-up actors, etc--even though his own life is in shambles. But then Henry takes on a troubled young girl as a patient, which completely disrupts his status quo. The stories intermingle, but this ain't Crash. It's the kind of film that Hollywood types like, since it's about themselves, a deliberately biting view of the town's narcissism, and those who seek genuine experiences and people, minus all the bullshit. The ensemble cast (Dallas Roberts, Mark Webber, Saffron Burrows, Robin Williams) is talented, but the film was too cute by half and everything wraps up just a little too tidily with a happy ending.
