The intrigues in film have turned into stories broken into pieces, fragments of a narrative meant to come back together at the end, like pieces of an irregular puzzle. You can disconnect for a few minutes without missing anything too important.
Sometimes, it’s difficult to grasp why a film exists. Perhaps to capture the attention of viewers who are said to pay almost as much attention to the small screens they hold in their hands as to the big cinema screens. The plots have become stories broken into pieces, fragments of a narrative meant to come back together at the end, like pieces of an irregular puzzle. You can disconnect for a few minutes without missing anything too important. But in the end, you might wonder what the film has left you with. I’m not talking about a section or even a satisfying ending. In reality, all you need is a feeling, the sense that something has changed within you. It’s a simple but essential pleasure that filmmakers of the new generation are less and less able to provide.
The latest example is “The Drama,” in which Robert Pattinson and Zendaya portray Emma and Charlie, a young, in love couple. They are engaged and busy with all the preparations this event involves: meeting photographers, learning dance steps, writing small speeches to declare their love to each other. Their closest friends, Rachel and Mike (Alana Haim and Mamoudou Athie), also a couple, accompany them through each step. We see, in the first scene, how Emma and Charlie charmingly met in a café, but this first meeting is based on deception: Charlie sees Emma reading a book; he discreetly takes a picture of the cover and quickly searches for details on his phone. He then approaches Emma, enthusiastically telling her how much he loves that same book, even though he obviously never read it. Emma initially ignores him — at least, that’s what he thinks. But as she finally manages to catch her attention, she explains that she is deaf in one ear (she wears an earbud in the other). Then she smiles so radiantly, showing that she completely falls for his little lie, even though, as we later discover, he will never read that book. The couple lives in a comfortable apartment, shelves filled with books, the kind of decor rarely seen in films today, and certainly not in real estate listings. This suggests that they are people who live with books and actually read them — or at least one of them, and one can imagine it’s Emma.
Charlie’s initial deception is trivial, right? In the universe of “The Drama” — which might be better described as a dark comedy rather than black comedy — it might not be so insignificant. We see, in flashbacks, how the bond between Emma and Charlie strengthened over time spent together. We never know exactly what Emma does — affectionate, gentle, but rather pragmatic in her behavior — in life, but it is implied that Charlie, charming and somewhat clumsy, works in a prestigious museum. In the most romantic scene of the film, Charlie speaks softly but confidently into Emma’s deaf ear, to see if she can pick up bits of what he’s saying or even just the meaning behind his words. “I love you so much it hurts,” he tells her. “I want to marry you, but I’m too scared to ask.” She doesn’t hear him at all — she repeats his words in the form of an absurd and silly sentence — but the sentiment is there. Everything should go smoothly, as planned.
And yet, that’s not the case. In the big twist of the film, about a third of the way into the story, we learn that Emma has a secret, a remnant of her difficult and unloved adolescence within a military family; she was forced to move so often that she never felt anchored anywhere. The pleasure the audience is supposed to derive from “The Drama” lies in not knowing this secret at first, even though it’s impossible to discuss the film’s meaning — or lack thereof — without revealing that this is not something Emma actually did, but only something she considered doing. Once Emma reveals this secret, just remembering it upsets her; she panics a little, tormented by imaginary flashes of who she used to be. Charlie, too, is troubled and starts to doubt this woman he was once madly in love with. Rachel, played by Haim, loses her cool and rebels against her best friend.
Overall, Emma’s secret fits into a trend that has caused a lot of suffering and anguish politically, particularly in the United States. It’s significant that the writer-director of “The Drama” is Norwegian and not American. Kristoffer Borgli — who previously directed the ironically entertaining and uneven black comedy “Sick of Myself” — may be attempting to make a broader political statement about American society, from a comfortable position.
But it’s hard to know what “The Drama” is trying to say or do, beyond teasing its audience with its lack of specificity. Is it a reflection on how love can blind us — or, worse, make us completely insensitive to others’ pain? Is it a call for more empathy towards those who suffer, or those who may have suffered, from mental illness? Does it suggest that humans no longer really know how to listen to each other? You don’t need to spend an hour and forty minutes looking at your phone to be lost in what’s happening in “The Drama.” Why give it particular attention when there’s no real reward? When the marriage finally happens, it’s staged to evoke bitter and awkward laughter, even though it’s anything but funny. The climactic scene, supposed to be the dramatic climax of the film, turns into a kind of shrug like, “Marriages! You know what I mean?”
One could argue that the stars of “The Drama” are its main attraction, and perhaps all the film needs. Pattinson is a astute and subtle actor, and here, he goes from an untrustworthy character to an adorable one, and perhaps to a truly despicable character. He does whatever the script requires of him, whatever that may be. As for Zendaya, she perfectly embodies Emma’s perplexity at how Charlie turns against her; her inability to rectify the situation probably illustrates the emotional damage that lack of communication can cause in a relationship. It’s something, or maybe not much.
And sometimes, the way a filmmaker treats a supporting actor tells you all you need to know. Alana Haim, the singer who made her acting debut in Paul Thomas Anderson’s “Licorice Pizza,” portraying a kind of Californian dream girl, plays a character whose reaction to her best friend’s revelation seems almost caricatural, which is probably the intended effect. But why is Alana Haim filmed so awkwardly, often in close-up shots, that it’s impossible not to be distracted by the hideous grimace distorting her mouth every time she speaks? She becomes an unintended metaphor for the film surrounding her, moving forward without really saying much. It deserves half of your attention. You could spend the other half mourning what films used to be, even the pleasantly mediocre ones.
