In the world of cinema, plots have become fragmented stories, pieces of a narrative supposed to come together at the end, like pieces of an irregular puzzle. You can disconnect for a few minutes without missing anything really important. Sometimes, it’s hard to understand why a film exists. Maybe it’s 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. Plots have become fragmented stories, pieces of a narrative supposed to come together at the end, like pieces of an irregular puzzle. You can disconnect for a few minutes without missing anything really important. But in the end, you may 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 in you. It’s a simple but essential pleasure that filmmakers of the new generation are increasingly unable to provide.
The latest example is “The Drama,” in which Robert Pattinson and Zendaya portray Emma and Charlie, a young couple in love. They are engaged and busy with all the preparations that this event entails: meeting photographers, learning dance steps, writing small speeches to declare their love for each other. Their closest friends, Rachel and Mike (Alana Haim and Mamoudou Athie), also a couple, accompany them at each step. In the first scene, we see how Emma and Charlie charmingly met in a cafe, but this first meeting is based on deceit: Charlie sees Emma reading a book; he discreetly takes a photo of the cover and quickly searches for details on his phone. He then approaches Emma, enthusiastically telling her how much he loves the same book, even though he clearly has not read it. Emma initially ignores him – at least, that’s what he believes. But as she explains when he finally grabs her attention, she is deaf in one ear (she wears an earbud in the other). Then she smiles so radiantly that it’s clear 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. It suggests that these are people who live with books and actually read them – at least one of them, and one might imagine that person is Emma.
Charlie’s initial deception is trivial, isn’t it? In the world of “The Drama” – which might better be described as a dark comedy rather than a black comedy – it may not be so inconsequential. Through flashbacks, we see how the bond between Emma and Charlie has strengthened over time spent together. We never know exactly what Emma does – affectionate, gentle, but with a rather pragmatic 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 catch bits of his words or even just the meaning of his words. “I love you so much it hurts,” he tells her. “I want to marry you, but I’m too afraid to ask you.” She doesn’t hear anything – she misinterprets his words as an absurd and whimsical sentence – but the feeling is there. Everything should go splendidly, as planned.
Yet, that is not the case. In the film’s big twist, about a third of the way through the narrative, 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 could put down roots. The enjoyment the audience is supposed to derive from “The Drama” relies on not knowing this secret from the start, though it’s impossible to discuss the meaning of the film – or its lack of meaning – without revealing that this act isn’t something Emma actually did, but only something she considered doing. Once Emma reveals this secret, just the memory of it upsets her; she panics a bit, haunted by imaginary flashes of who she was before. Charlie, too, is troubled and starts to doubt this woman he was once madly in love with. Rachel, played by Haim, loses her composure and rebels against her best friend.
Overall, Emma’s secret aligns with a trend that, especially in the United States, has caused a lot of suffering and anguish on a political level. It’s significant that the writer-director of “The Drama” is Norwegian rather than American. Kristoffer Borgli – who previously directed the dark comedy “Sick of Myself,” ironically entertaining and uneven – may be attempting to make a broad political statement about American society, from a comfortable position.
But it’s hard to know what “The Drama” is trying to say or do, besides teasing its audience with lack of clarity. 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 suffering, or those who may have suffered, from mental illness? Does it suggest that humans no longer truly know how to listen to each other? You don’t need to spend an hour and forty minutes staring at your phone to be lost in what’s happening in “The Drama.” Why pay special attention when there’s no real reward? When the marriage finally takes place, it’s staged to evoke bitter, offbeat laughs, although it’s anything but funny. The climactic scene, supposed to be the dramatic peak of the film, turns into a sort of shrug of the shoulders, like saying “Weddings! You know what I mean?”.
One could argue that the stars of “The Drama” are its main draw, and maybe all the film needs. Pattinson is a perceptive and subtle actor, shifting from an untrustworthy character to an endearing one, and perhaps even to a truly despicable character. He does everything the script asks of him, whatever it may be. As for Zendaya, she perfectly embodies Emma’s perplexity at how Charlie turns against her; her inability to set things right probably illustrates the emotional damage that lack of communication can cause in a relationship. It’s something, or maybe nothing much at all.
And sometimes, the way a filmmaker treats a supporting actor tells you everything you need to know. Alana Haim, the singer who made her acting debut in Paul Thomas Anderson’s “Licorice Pizza,” portraying a kind of California dream girl, plays a character whose reaction to her best friend’s revelation seems almost caricatural, which is likely the intended effect. But why is Alana Haim filmed so awkwardly, often in tight close-ups, making it impossible not to be distracted by the hideous grimace distorting her mouth whenever she speaks? She becomes an unintentional metaphor for the film surrounding her, which moves forward without really saying much. It deserves half your attention. You could spend the other half mourning what films used to be, even the pleasantly mediocre ones.
