Is a difference which makes no difference any different at all?
What if you went as yourself this Halloween? How would anyone know?
***image2***Ever since studios realized they could milk box office out of it, Hollywood has gleefully exploited the potential lurking in self-referentiality. Think of Orson Welles' all-too-convincing broadcast of HG Wells; WWII hero Audie Murphy's starring in his own biopic (and scads of similar WWII movies); the eerie video plausibility of
The Blair Witch Project
; or Werner Herzog's experiments in "faction." Think of Christopher Guest's beloved mockumentaries, or the eight-minute long tracking shot opening Robert Altman's
The Player
, during which one character bitterly decries the fact that films no longer open with uncut long shots. On the other hand, try not to think of Donald Trump's and Martha Stewart's tautologous appearances on sur/reality TV or the number of people, apparently including right-wing pundits, who really believe Jon Stewart is a network news anchor. From
The Simpsons'
infamous guest slots to comedian Jerry Seinfeld's television show about a comedian named Jerry Seinfeld who has a television show, the conclusion's inescapable: Audiences love to gaze beatifically upon our own reflections. We're deeply tickled and delighted by contemporary tropes of self-regard.
So it may not be not quite as original as Andrew Wagner hopes to make a movie in which his family members play, well, themselves. (Fortuitously, he comes from a flourishing line of thespians, to say nothing of complete hams.) Yet when his Steadicam first wobbles its way through the cluttered home of his New Yorker parents (Allen and Judy Wagner, very much as themselves) it's initially hard to tweak what's going on. As accustomed to the parodic as we are, there's still some part which remains incredulous:
Can these people be for real?
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It's partly that ongoing disbelief which keeps
The Talent Given Us
ticking-that and its frankly fabulous cast. Allen suffers from an unidentified neuropathic disorder which leaves his balance unsteady, his mouth permanently ajar and, Judy doesn't hesitate to let everyone in earshot know, their sex life with a lot to be (literally) desired. He worries over investments and she does crosswords and eats ice cream standing up at the freezer, all of which would be plenty fascinating in and of itself; but Wagner's making a different film, one that slathers Plot all over his half-creations and then checks up on them in the interstices.
When his actress sisters Emily and Maggie join their parents at the family's vacation home, Judy abruptly decides they should all drive to Los Angeles together to surprise Andrew, who's not returning their phone calls. Five minutes into the cross-country journey and you can understand why; at their least grating, Mr. and Mrs. Wagner are George Costanza's parents on ephedra, bandying snortingly ridiculous dialogue (especially with Botoxed yogini Emily), airing dirty marital laundry, acquiring another traveler (Judy Dixon, who adds an unexpected twist) and stopping off in, among other places, Santa Fe.
Just when the car trip's manic cacophony starts to fray our nerves, Wagner seems to intuit that his parading of the familial wackyness has worn thin. And he steps aside-so that in the end, it's entirely their willingness to be visible, transparent to and witnessed by us, that leaves
Talent
lingering in the mind as something genuine and, yes, real.
