Is there humor in this? To a point. It’s funny that Russell’s bedroom still has copies of Encyclopedia Brown adventures on the shelf next to ribbons celebrating his “participation.” It’s funny, too, that Russell is tied up in a pyramid scheme and works at what must be the last waterbed store in the country—pyramid schemes and waterbeds are inherently funny. But there’s a desperation to this humor that I find creatively uninspired. Payne keeps piling on absurdity after absurdity, many of them articulated by Roberta in lengthy monologues as if she’s checking off a list. Of all of Payne’s films, this is the one that feels farthest from reality, not because it’s the most cartoonish (that would be Citizen Ruth by a mile), and not because it fails to show the world as we experience it (because often it does), but because it fails to give us a distinct emotional center to which we can relate.
EH: In addition, Payne is so busy subverting expectations—refusing to deliver on any of the themes or Hollywood conventions that he teases and then drops—that he never settles on what the film is actually about or what Warren’s story is meant to mean. So much of About Schmidt is poised between mockery and sentimentality, and the mix is really queasy. Payne never really explicitly shows us anything that would contradict Warren’s disgusted, judgmental view of Randall, Roberta and the rest of them, but really their worst crime is being a little crude, a little silly, a little, well, lower-class. Warren, as a representative of the white collar middle class, spends most of the movie sneering at the mulletted Randall and the oversexed Roberta, and if Payne thinks Warren’s contempt is misplaced, he doesn’t give much sign of it. For a time, late in the film, it seems like Warren might soften a bit, but then he delivers that insincere wedding speech—during which Payne inserts a gratuitous and especially ugly closeup of Randall’s all-but-drooling, drug burnout brother while Warren disingenuously claims that he seems like “a thoughtful young man”—and goes home without having eased up on his contempt in the least.
It’s easy to imagine another, more conventional Hollywood movie in which Warren is eventually worn down by the friendliness of his daughter’s new in-laws, or maybe even develops an opposites-attract romance with the obviously interested Roberta. And while I’m glad the film didn’t actually head in that direction, as it briefly seems like it might before the wedding, Payne seems all too content to define the movie by the paths he deliberately chooses not to take rather than the ones he does. The result is a film that’s all about negativity: both the blistering hatefulness of Warren and the cynical manipulation of Payne.
It’s striking, then, to compare About Schmidt with Payne’s next movie, Sideways, which is not without its own measure of negativity and mockery, but is certainly not lacking in a strong emotional center. Sideways, though based on a novel by Rex Pickett, is obviously a very personal film for Payne—during About Schmidt, Warren’s RV drives past a movie marquee that announces the name of the director’s next film, which suggests that Payne was already thinking about adapting the novel. The evidence is onscreen, too. Although Payne is hardly uncritical of his lead character, the snobby wine connoisseur and failing writer Miles (Paul Giamatti), there’s an affection and warmness in this movie that’s never felt in relation to Warren or any of the other characters in About Schmidt. It makes Sideways at least a much more palatable movie, in that it’s not as viscerally and unrelentingly off-putting, but in the end I find myself almost as annoyed by this film’s tinkly-jazz wine tour of infidelity, miserablism, and solipsism as I was by About Schmidt’s much more direct expressions of bile.
JB: Yeah, when I revisited Sideways for this discussion, seeing it for the first time since its theatrical release, I found that it was more rewarding than I’d remembered it and also more disappointing. I’m not sure what that means—perhaps only that I have a poor memory. Sideways is a different kind of Payne film, much more hopeful and sentimental than Payne’s other pictures, followed by The Descendants, but it isn’t without bile and bite. Giamatti’s Miles might not be a loser in the class of Dern’s Ruth, but over the first 15 minutes of the movie the deck is stacked against him in all sorts of ways. First, Miles wakes up late and then lies about the reason for his delay; then he says he’s heading out the door before taking his sweet time getting ready; then he says “croissant” with the kind of emphatic French pronunciation that’s usually the realm of Alex Trebek; then he lies about nonexistent traffic; then he establishes himself as a, yep, condescending wine snob; and then, to top it all off, he steals money from his own mother. And yet, dammit, we like him almost instantly.
Some of that is a credit to Miles himself, who makes it clear from the beginning that he’s genuinely concerned with showing his buddy, Thomas Haden Church’s Jack, a good time. Some of that is attributable to the juxtaposition of Miles’ faults (wine snobbery and other fairly innocent pretensions) with those of Jack (a sex-crazed philanderer desperate to bury his bone in the first available hole, even though he has a beautiful woman waiting to marry him). Most of it, though, is a tribute to Giamatti. Although Election’s plucky Tracy Flick is difficult to ignore, Sideways’ Miles has to be the richest character in Payne’s filmography, and Giamatti is the perfect actor to tap into his loneliness, bitterness, anger, intelligence and sensitivity. So much of it is just the look: Giamatti is overweight and balding, with an English major’s beard. In one early shot, the camera captures Miles and Jack from behind as they drive into Santa Barbara County in Miles’ convertible, Miles’ bald spot sitting amidst curls of brown hair like an egg in a nest, contrasted with Jack’s longer hair waving in the breeze. It’s not often you can convey character with the back of someone’s head, but Payne does that.
Giamatti was by no means a household name when Sideways came out (heck, he might not be a household name now), but he was the right guy for the part, and that’s something that Payne takes very seriously. In that recent Fresh Air interview, Payne said, “Casting is the most important part of all components of cinema. It’s the first among equals. The cast is the primary possessor and expresser of tone.…It’s the single most important element of the film that should never be compromised.” We can debate whether that’s true, but I think it’s interesting that Payne said it and has a track record that pretty much backs it up; he may have cast A-listers like Nicholson and Clooney, but he didn’t use them in the ways that made them A-listers in the first place. Anyway, regardless of the importance of casting to cinema as a whole, there’s no doubt that it’s of paramount importance within Payne’s filmography and that the casting of Giamatti as Miles is the pinnacle of Payne’s efforts in that regard.
EH: The acting is definitely the signal bright spot of Sideways, not only Giamatti’s self-pitying Miles and Church’s unrepentant pussyhound Jack, but also Virginia Madsen’s radiant Maya. Madsen’s performance is fantastic: her Maya is soulful, sweet, and intelligent, and coupled with Madsen’s beauty, she’s basically inviting the audience to fall in love with her at the same time as Miles does. In the film’s best scene, Miles and Maya take turns describing to one another what they love about wine, and their words reveal as much about their deepest thoughts and ideas as about their taste in beverages. Miles’ ode to his favored Pinot Noir doubles as a self-description: he says that the wine is fragile, that it needs to be nurtured and cared for, that it’s a difficult variety to cultivate but that careful, sensitive attention can coax total brilliance out of the fragile grape. This is how Miles sees himself, and Giamatti’s passionate delivery of this marvelous speech suggests just how hurt Miles is that no one has yet seen the potential in him, no one has tried to coax out the complexity and nuance that the best winemakers have discovered in Pinot Noir.
Maya responds to this thinly veiled confession with her own deeply personal monologue about her love of wine. As she describes her sensual, intellectual engagement with wine and how it makes her think about time, mortality, organic processes, history and nature, the mood grows hushed and sensual to match her words. Payne bathes her elegantly beautiful face in a soft, glowing orange light, as she leans forward towards Miles, her voice purring as she pours out this poetic appreciation of the profundity that she finds in wine. This is a very powerful acting showcase, and a wonderful character moment. It’s also an invitation to intimacy that the hapless, pathetic Miles clumsily allows to pass him by, staggering instead into awkwardness, trying to follow up her soul-baring eloquence with banal chit-chat. It’s painfully awkward to see him flounder this moment, and Payne’s mastery of tones here, shifting smoothly from sensuality and self-revelation to a comedy of humiliation, demonstrates his skill with juggling contradictory moods. I think this whole sequence represents one of the high points of Payne’s filmography, so I can see why you’d say that the film is, at least at moments like this, rewarding. But you’re also right that it’s disappointing, because for every scene like that gorgeous nighttime conversation, there’s another like the scene where Miles sneaks into the house of one of Jack’s conquests to steal back the wallet that his friend left behind. This scene has to be a nadir for Payne, ridiculing a lower-class couple for being fat, stupid, sexually dysfunctional (when Miles sneaks into the couple’s room, they’re having sex while the husband calls his wife a slut for sleeping with Jack earlier), messy and Republican. Payne’s camera pans around the bedroom while Miles looks for Jack’s wallet: the shot takes in the couple fucking enthusiastically on the bed, the garbage and dirty clothes strewn everywhere, and the TV which just happens to be showing George Bush and Donald Rumsfeld, as though drawing a silent connection between fat rural people living in a messy, squalid home, having violent and angry sex, and the Republican politics of the time. The scene ends with the husband running naked into the street, chasing Miles, crashing into Jack and Miles’ car with his penis pressed up against the window. It’s just a horrible, horrible scene.
JB: Yeah, that scene provides comedy from the About Schmidt model; it’s empty and unproductive. The set-up to the scene is fine: Jack slums it with an overweight waitress he knows to be married and ends up naked in the street without his phone or wallet after the husband catches him in the act. In a movie with one eye on addiction, it’s Jack’s proverbial rock bottom, the equivalent of the scene in which the alcohol-abusing Miles loses it and drinks from the spit basin at the winery. Thus, there’s even some justification for Miles being the one to sneak into the house to retrieve Jack’s things: it’s an act of penance, a symbol of his devotion to his friend, evidence that underneath the exterior pain and anger, he’s a good person. But all of that set-up dissolves into a cheap bad-naked joke reminiscent of Roberta stripping down to get into the hot tub. It’s a cheap gag, and maybe it provides a reflexive laugh, but it reduces the sincerity of everything before it, making Payne a bit like Miles: doubling back to engage in idle chit-chat as if uncomfortable to stay in the moment. Even if Payne is just being faithful to Pickett’s novel in that scene—and I haven’t read it, so I don’t know—he’s not being faithful to his own established tone, and that’s what makes it so deflating.
I have a similar problem, by the way, with the scene at the winery where Miles snaps and chugs from the spit basin. It’s not that I can’t imagine someone doing that, because under the spell of alcohol people do all sorts of crazy things. It’s also not impossible for me to imagine Miles doing that, because we see him self-destruct in his drink-and-dial moment at the restaurant. But the way it plays out doesn’t ring true, because in this moment Miles is still in pursuit of drunkenness, not feeling its effects—and furthermore it suggests that Miles’ previous strict adherence to winery etiquette is fraudulent camouflage, which couldn’t be further from the truth. Miles loves everything about wine culture; it’s the one thing that gives him self-confidence. So, sure, like Jack, we’re watching Miles hit rock bottom, but it’s highly unlikely that Miles’ rock bottom would look anything like that, and so the scene comes off like a cheap shock gag. It’s as if Payne feels Miles needs to be brought down from his ivory tower, to be royally embarrassed for thinking himself superior to those around him, and understandably so. Indeed, Miles is a snob. Indeed, he can be condescending. And there’s that word again. While I generally feel the “condescending” tag is misapplied to Payne, I have to admit that it’s odd to see him punishing a character for a superiority complex.
EH: Yeah, Payne strikes a weird tone with respect to Miles, because I think it’s clear that he identifies with Miles even as he runs the character through the wringer and invites the audience to laugh at Miles’ pretensions, as in the scene where Miles becomes apoplectic over the idea that someone might order—gasp!—Merlot at dinner. Miles’ snobbery is an easy target, and sometimes Payne, who generally respects the passion of Miles and Maya for wines, can’t resist taking some fake-populist cheap shots at their rarified interests.
What’s funny is that Payne is, in many ways, as judgmental as Miles is, which is especially obvious when you look at his treatment of nudity in About Schmidt and Sideways. I seem to remember, back when the former movie first came out, that Kathy Bates got a lot of attention for her nude scene, with a lot of people praising Payne for having someone other than a hot young actress appearing naked on screen. True, it’s a rarity in Hollywood cinema for an older actress to show her body, and even male nudity is uncommon; most nudity in Hollywood is just blatant titillation aimed at young male audiences. But far from being a validation of sexuality after youth’s end, Payne treats Roberta’s nudity as a joke; Warren is made deeply uncomfortable by it, and the implication is that the audience should to some extent share in that discomfort, turned off by her aged, somewhat overweight naked body. Sideways displays the same attitude in the scene where Miles steals the wallet back: the humor, such as it is, is meant to arise from seeing unattractive people naked. It’s seamy spectacle. Payne contrasts such unpleasantness against all the montages where Payne shows the two couples talking and laughing, drinking wine, having dinner, admiring beautiful sunsets while sitting in the grass, and all the while this soft, tinkly music drowns out anything they might be saying. There’s a big tonal gap between this kind of sentimental, affectionate moment and the more bitter currents in the film, and the lack of consistency is probably the biggest problem with it.
JB: I’m glad you mentioned those sunsets, because one of the things I admire about Sideways is the organic realism of its natural beauty. Phedon Papamichael is the cinematographer for this film, replacing James Glennon, who was the director of photography for Payne’s first three films, but Sideways maintains the distinct look of a Payne movie. Earlier I said that Payne shows us places that look exactly like we experience them in the real world, and Sideways follows that trend. For example, there are a handful of shots in which Miles and Jack are shown walking down the shoulder of a busy road to or from their cheap motel. These are not beautiful shots by any means; these are the opposite of that. They’re pedestrian, forgive the pun—terrifically pedestrian. We’ve all made walks like that, on roads illuminated by the headlights of passing cars and bright auto dealerships, and few films better capture what that looks like. And just as Payne has a sharp eye for the mundane (see also: the Windmill Inn and the crappy diner where Miles and Jack eat breakfast), he has an eye for the simple beauty of wine country (rows of green and purple grapevines amidst dusty dry hills). Payne’s sunsets don’t have the orgasmic splendor that you’d find in a Terrence Malick film because Payne’s stories don’t live within the magic hour—literally, thematically or emotionally. Put another way, Payne gives us romance without resorting to the amplifications of romantic cinema.
I suppose that leads us to 14e Arrondissement, Payne’s contribution to the collection of vignettes that make up Paris, Je T’Aime. The short stars Margo Martindale as a fanny-pack-wearing postal carrier from Denver who is taking her dream trip to Paris. Or at least that’s the idea. This woman has studied French for two years in preparation for her journey, but no sooner does she arrive than she realizes that she has no one to talk to—no one beyond us, that is, listening to her narrate her vacation in hilariously mangled French. Over the course of the short, we see this woman venture out into France cautiously, falling back on hotel burgers for food, missing her dogs and visiting the graves of famous dead people she knows only through her guidebook. It’s a lonely trip in many ways, but, at times, a genuinely happy one, too. When talking about this short, it’s important to remember the structure of Paris, Je T’Aime, which confines each vignette to a specific neighborhood. And yet with Payne you get the sense that he wouldn’t have set this short at the Eiffel Tower or somewhere along the Seine even if he’d had the chance. Payne’s milieu is the comparatively average, and here that applies not only to the portions of Paris we see but also to the main character, who finds her bittersweet moment of emotional connection with the city not at one of its most famous landmarks but at a fairly typical park, full of locals enjoying a summer afternoon.
EH: This short is Payne in microcosm: emotionally resonant, concerned with the mundane, and with at least a touch of belittling condescension. Here, at least, the worst of the mocking tone is limited to a single shot, when Payne cuts to an image of a half-eaten, greasy burger while the narrator expresses her disappointment that French food hasn’t lived up to her expectations. That little jab at American cultural blindness aside, the short’s tone is mostly empathetic, providing a portrait of a lonely, sheltered woman who’s somewhat desperately trying to have fun far from home. It helps that Payne’s contribution is one of the best in this uneven, overstuffed portmanteau film, which occasionally interrupts its parade of mediocrity for scattered gems like Olivier Assayas’ touching miniature, which feels like a fragmentary outtake from Irma Vep. Payne was given the collection’s closing slot, though a pointless montage of all the shorts unfortunately follows his film’s elegiac conclusion, which otherwise builds a near-perfect mood in its final moments.
14e Arrondissement ends with the protagonist in a Parisian park, looking around her in a series of shots that in turn encompass kids playing, a young couple embracing, and an older couple sitting on a park bench. In one glance, she sees an entire life cycle arranged in an arc around her. In this moment, she must acutely feel her age and everything she’s missing out on, particularly love and companionship. And yet the film’s ending isn’t as downbeat as that makes it sound. The mood of the finale is actually warm and bittersweet, infused with sadness but also a sense of appreciation for the quiet beauty of everyday life. That particular mix of feelings is arguably the distinctive mark of a Payne film.