The Squid and the Whale.

CONCEPT

A surprising number of people have asked me to back up my opinion on The Squid and the Whale and now, knowing that I'm somewhat in the minority, I'll plead my case.

There are a few spoilers here...

I'm going to be a bit of a traditionalist for a moment. In the 1700s, the first time that the novel emerged as a defined form of literature, it was the subject of intense political scrutiny as a possible tool of insurrection. The positive social value pushed against this argument was that the novel was able to "instruct and delight." And while I don't want to adopt all of the historical and political baggage that goes along with the concept as originally put forth, so long as I keep my interpretation pretty broad, it's difficult to think of art (including film) that I've appreciated that hasn't done one or the other.

The first problem with The Squid and the Whale is that it's a clumsy lump. In the end it ends up being a very traditional Bildungsroman, a pseudo-autobiographical yarn about Walt Berkman (who looks exactly like big Pete from The Adventures of Pete and Pete... Pete, you young letch you) dealing with Teenage Things from the middle of a messy divorce involving self-absorbed, shallow, selfish people. Well, okay, not exclusively shallow, although Jeff Daniels as Bernard (the father) was shallow enough to walk across without getting your shoes wet. What I'm saying is that at the end, the story is about Walt's struggle with his assumptions about his family, his scrutiny of people he's admired, and how he has a mess of a time figuring himself out given the lack of anything immobile to use to get his bearings. It's a "who am I?" story.

Fair enough.

Thing is, I didn't get this until the very last few minutes of the film. Up until the final apartment showdown, I had no idea that Walt was the central focus of the film and (ideally) my attention. The film up until this point seemed evenly split among the members of the family. For some reason, I was always dragged into scenes that existed, evidently, to highlight moral ambiguity. Which was profoundly confusing when the ambiguities never seemed to make its way back to the plot, much less any final stasis/resolution (or chaos/uncertainty).

Look: a moral ambiguity isn't good for much if a character plows right through it thoughtlessly. This is my second major complaint. Bernard, who I hoped might get hit by a cement mixer withing the first couple minutes, was the worst in this regard; for all the blatant and oft-repeated meditative rants on his wife's issues, he never seemed for a moment to really scrutinize his own actions or his past. He never even seemed to scrutinize his objectives or his own arguments with anything more than a peripheral glance. His accusations were a one-note tactical maneuver ("let's work this out because you know you owe me...") that never gave way to an actual discussion or even a nuanced tennis strategy, but simply dissolved into invective. (Maybe this is why he was such an apparently lousy writer, although I can't think of anyone who has ever gotten a one-sentence rejection letter).

I don't have a problem with two-dimensional characters. I have a big problem with stories that distort two-dimensional characters in some tortured attempt to make me believe they're "deep"; worthy of my empathy and consideration. Bernard was the worst offender by thousands of leagues, but truthfully, there wasn't much by way of depth on almost anyone else's line either. Yes, Owen (younger brother) was tortured, but did it ever lead us / take him anywhere? Walt was convincingly rendered, and I would say the same for Joan (his mother) and Sophie (his girlfriend)... too bad we couldn't have seen some more of Sophie. She was genuinely interesting; why didn't she get some of Bernard's more useless moments?

And finally, there's my own strong bias. Bernard was a compilation of every nasty writerly stereotype out there: pompous, aloof, pretentious, stupid, short-sighted, egomaniacal, shallow and selfish. I know plenty of writers with some of these qualities (and certainly I play some out on my own), but I've rarely encountered such a garish mishmash of unpleasantry. He was like a Severus Snape who trades off his competence and allure for a couple five dollar nouns. So why would I want him in my living room for an evening?

In short, I have three complaints:

1. The form of the story changes, directing me first to follow four family members with equal attention, while my focus is actually intended for the son, Walt. This feels like an accidental choice that doesn't reward my scrutinizing or rigorous viewing.
2. The narrative is deceptive in that it provides superficial evidence of character struggle and reckoning that fails to build or materialize either in the plot or in relationships between characters.
3. I hate obnoxious artists; I was too mad at Jeff Daniels' character to enjoy anything much.


I'll allow that #3 isn't a good argument that this is a awful film. It is a good reason, however, for me to feel that I wasted my evening by spending it with an insipid and trivial person.

After my own violence in writing this, I should allow that a number of people have come to defend this film.
In fact, a lot of people I deeply respect on this think I'm dead wrong about this film, and for all I know they're right.

Still, I'm unconvinced on every front.

The Squid and the Whale seems to me to be the most appalling, offensive artistic conceit; a small world pretending to be large; a simple world pretending to be complex. In short, a world that looks entirely inward while claiming that it looks out.

Note: Now I'm going to write about a movie I thought was absolutely spectacular.

END OF POST.