The Future is just replete with wishy-washy pretension. Who knew? You gotta hand it to folks who were inspired to make a film without ever having seen one. That’s not fair. Clearly, Writer/Director/Star Miranda July has seen films, just not outside art houses or film school class. There’s no other way to explain it. How else do you accomplish quirk without charm or mirth without joy? The Future practically insists that empathy comes from mere presence, not participation. We like them because we showed up; there wasn’t a need to elicit our good will.
Sophie (Miranda July) and Jason (Hamish Linklater) are two of the greatest commitmentphobes on the globe. Their fear of the unexplored is so profound that a decision to take in a broken cat comes with the caveat that the cat will only live for six months or so. Unfortunately, they’re also boring and they know it. They smile at one another with almost condescending affection (“I love you because I’m lame.” “Yeah, me too.”) So to escape their general malaise with life, they decide to try something new. Hamish gives up his crappy customer phone service job in favor of a crappier one in which he sells trees door to door. Sophie decides to master a dance a day for a month, but tires somewhere between day 1 and the time I fell asleep. When I woke up, she started shacking up with a really slimy widower twice her age.
I felt like every attempt at humor in this film was a puzzle, as if the artist got lost looking for Guffawville. Was that funny? The slimy guy’s daughter digs a hole in the front yard so she can, literally, take a dirt nap in lieu of sleeping in a bed in a house. How do we greet this? Do we tsk the father, who is so callous that he lets it happen, or cringe at the woman who should know better but hasn’t the backbone to interfere? Kinda both, kinda neither. When the daughter comes in filthy and miserable from the cold night, it is clear that the director missed Guffawville by several exits.
Oh, did I mention the pretension? No? Wow. The broken cat talks philosophy (memo to Ms. July: let somebody else do the voice-over next time; the cat sounds like a pedophilic grandmother). Hamish stops time and then converses with the moon. The moon talks back and eventually concludes, “what do I know? I’m just a rock in the sky.” Sorry, you’re not allowed that cop out. Not after watching this loser actually stop time. And, that too, wasn’t funny.
Rated R, 91 Minutes
D: Miranda July
W: Miranda July
Genre: Pretentious art film
Type of person most likely to enjoy this film: People too lazy to turn off the TV
Type of person least likely to enjoy this film: Anyone with a goal in life
