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USA 1998
Reviewed by Peter Matthews
Our synopses give away the plot in full, including surprise twists.
New York City. After 16 years of marriage, home-nurse Judith Nelson's husband Bob dumps her for another woman. Meanwhile, Pat, the lift operator in Judith's building, desperately attempts to pay off his debt to some loan sharks. When his daughter Lisa dies, Pat's wife throws him out and he moves in with his brother Philly. At Jasper's Jazz Club, Judith listens to torch-singer Liz Bailey. Looking for the toilet, she finds herself in a clinch with a stranger expecting someone else. Later, a euphoric Judith invites Pat in for coffee. When their conversation is interrupted by the loan sharks, Pat borrows $200 from Judith.
Philly agrees to lend Pat $400 so that he can repay and woo Judith. Pat confesses to Judith his dream of importing Italian food. Philly consents to pay off Pat's debt and finance a trip to Italy if he will work part-time in his bar. At the club, Judith searches for her handsome stranger in vain. Returning home drunk, she rudely ignores Pat and seeks solace with a male masseur. Later, she apologises to Pat but hesitates to accept his offer of a romantic dinner. However, after Liz gives her some happy pills, Judith ravishes a baffled Pat in the lift. Accompanying Liz to a lesbian club, Judith slow-dances with a young woman. Pat invites Judith to Italy with him but she refuses. Some months later, a happier Judith spots Pat at the jazz club with an Italian woman.
Directed by Richard LaGravenese, screenwriter of The Fisher King, The Horse Whisperer and other films, the best that can be said for the feminist rites-of-passage comedy Living Out Loud is that it seems to suffer from a guilty conscience. The movie plays a complicated shell game with the viewer, raising a whole slew of issues and then juggling the story elements so that you won't notice what a phoney bill of goods you've been sold. Probably no one is fooled while LaGravenese ties himself up in knots trying to explain why things can't work out between the madcap heroine Judith and her adoring suitor Pat. The film is ostensibly about two lyrical lost souls whose transient relationship gives them the courage to look life straight in the eye. But since he is the lowly lift operator in her exclusive Upper East Side building, their crypto-romance is flatly unequal - and the film would rather die than admit that.
There are, however, one or two strangely jarring scenes where the unstated irony of the picture almost spills out. In the first, Judith details the circumstances of her broken marriage and describes her long-term goal of becoming a paediatrician. Without a flicker of resentment, Pat replies that it must be nice if you're rich and can pick yourself up like that. While his subsequent request for a loan might be interpreted as class revenge, the disquieting ambiguity of this exchange is left hanging like a bad odour. Later on, Judith endeavours to dampen Pat's ardour by declaring her wish to be "authentic". Again, the film speedily backs away from its own nagging suspicion that her fumbling quest for personal meaning is strictly a middle-class enterprise. Judith's existential freedom and Pat's material determinism are silently registered in a mise en scène that contrasts the vast open spaces of her apartment with the claustrophobic confinement of the lift.
But though Living Out Loud gingerly concedes that class does matter, it also attempts to anaesthetise the viewer to this insight's nastier implications. Just when you have Judith pegged as a moral leech who recharges her batteries at a working man's expense, the movie squelches this impious thought by a providential bolt from the blue: she is exposed as a former guttersnipe who has merely learned to 'do' the Upper East Side. By a similar sleight of hand, the misused Pat gets fobbed off with a buxom Italian beauty and a pasta-import business, so we don't have to worry about him.
One hesitates to say it, but Living Out Loud seems very American in its social attitudes. The film would make up an instructive double bill with Ken Loach's My Name Is Joe, so emotionally devastating in its picture of the objective forces driving apart its two lovers. Admittedly, LaGravenese is making a comedy, but the facile melting-pot ideology he milks results in one of the more unintelligible and shape-shifting protagonists in screen history.
As if her class vampirism weren't enough, Judith has an incidental nibble at race in the form of a sisterly alliance with Liz, the sultry black chanteuse at a jazz dive. Does anybody really believe that this powerhouse would give a needy white woman like Judith the time of day? Yet LaGravenese seems determined to perform a clean sweep, since he also broaches the question of our heroine's inchoate sexuality. The film invents its own curious New York ritual of ladies who lunch and stare inquisitively at Judith over her copy of Edith Wharton. Finally, she's ready to take the plunge at an upscale lesbian club, which must have the strictest babe-only door policy imaginable. After dancing in tight formation with a number of these foxes, Judith begins to nuzzle one experimentally - but the rest is silence. What's pathetic about the movie is that it tries to conjure away the unresolved class theme by replacing it with the lesbian theme, and then cops out on that too. You're meant to conclude that the newly empowered Judith has many choices to make and miles to go before she sleeps with anyone, a comfy platitude that's like a big red ribbon tying up this parcel of evasions and falsehoods.