As a modern tale of romance and love lost, Noah Baumbach’s careful, commanding Marriage Story doesn’t necessarily bill itself as a congenial narrative. We’re not all ingenious creatives, nor are we all wealthy creatives. We’re not all white and attractive, with bountiful locks. We cannot all assert that we loved our significant others within two seconds of knowing them. To boil it down, we’re not all Charlie (Adam Driver) and Nicole Barber (Scarlett Johansson), two seemingly perfect people making up a seemingly perfect couple.
But appearances can be deceiving, and we’d do well to refrain from judgment based on the cover of a book. For while the Barber’s beauty and talent may precede them, they live in marital squalor, trying and failing to grasp at the fine straws that make up the remains of the relationship they once had. Baumbach is naturally and indelibly meticulous with his story and script; he somehow tells the story of many a heartbreak and fracturing matrimony, as well as the intimate, distinct story of Charlie and Nicole. This film is special.
The film, likely and evidently drawn by Baumbach’s own divorce from Jennifer Jason Leigh in 2010, opens with a set of emotionally resounding, soft-spoken monologues. “What I love about Nicole,” reads Charlie, and vice versa. They both say the kinds of things you’d love to hear your own partner say about you; the affectionate, personal things that only that person would think to see or know. “She knows when to push me, and when to leave me alone.” “He cries easily in movies.” “She’s competitive.” “He’s competitive (‘What’s this? Who owns Baltic Avenue?’).” It’s a moving montage, even when upon the monologue’s conclusions, you find that they were written for a session with a mediator. Their separation is already in motion; this is just an attempt at softening the swift, gutting blow.
Charlie is a New York playwright whose works have gained critical acclaim — thanks, in part, to Nicole, an actress, and his muse — who sees himself as a true-blue New Yorker. Nicole, meanwhile, was born and bred in Los Angeles, only first coming to New York because she received a ticket to one of Charlie’s plays. She receives an opportunity to star in a television series pilot, though Charlie remains distracted by his own ambitions and wants that his wife’s needs become secondary. At least that’s the perspective that we see from the start.
Through mindfully constructed scenes in which each of the two chat with lawyers (Laura Dern plays Nicole’s, a lethal Ray Liotta-Alan Alda combination play Charlie’s) about their relationship’s past and present, we see that it’s not so simple and that the New York move maybe wasn’t so one-sided. I continue to emphasize Baumbach’s care with these intricacies of a split because it feels so raw; Nicole’s monologue to Nora, whom Dern plays which ebullience, feels like a single take. Charlie’s discussions with Liotta and Alda’s drastically different takes on LA-based lawyers — one caters to the stars and charges a pretty penny, the other is a three-time divorcee whose modest approach suggests that Charlie might as well throw in the towel; take a guess which actor plays which lawyer — are much jerkier, appropriate to his difficulties with this drastic change. Not only might he need to move to Los Angeles to see his son, but he’ll likely have to siphon off a substantial chunk of his MacArthur Grant to pay for his divorce. What fun.
But it is fun, or at least you’re having fun. It’s a hilarious film, chock-full of awkward scenes worthy of nothing less than a vocal guffaw. The idea of divorce isn’t humorous, no, certainly not. What’s funny is the process one must go through to leave someone they love. The fees, the stress, the lack of familiarity. Unless you have a stellar lawyer — Nicole does, lucky for her — the journey seems arduous and confusing. It’s not fun watching the life of these lovers tear away the seams, but Baumbach stitches together the fibers of this film so intricately that, again, it feels relatable and real. You’re chuckling, sure, but you’re slapping your head, too. You don’t get it, but, in a way, you feel like you get it.
It’s in the film’s detailed writing and unforgettable performances that these praises evolve from intentions to commitments, in which Driver and Johansson seem like they’re evolving on screen. Both performers deservedly get their scene. Johansson’s aforementioned monologue in Nora’s office is probably her most memorable solo act, though rivaled by a hilarious sequence involving her sister (Merritt Wever), mother (Julie Hagerty), and a manila folder containing official divorce papers. It’ll be tough, though, to find a more memorable scene, beat-for-beat, in a film this year than Driver’s performance of Stephen Sondheim’s “Being Alive” in the bar that Charlie and his own theater company frequent. The lyrics and the context in which they are sung are as painful and artistic as just about anything else in this film; occasionally, the things most beautiful are the hardest to witness. In Charlie’s words, “I cried four times.”
The film is beautifully technically, too, as Baumbach’s films tend to be by habit. Cinematographer Robbie Ryan, known for his work on last year’s The Favourite, is as careful as his director with the camera, finding the exact spots to close in on his subjects and when to capture the set in its entirety. Randy Newman’s score accompanies some of the film’s more pivotal, emotional scene, which explains why, one more than one occasion, it felt like Woody was primed to say goodbye to Buzz and the gang. It’s no distraction, though. It’s a gift Newman has, using familiar-sounding orchestral tracking to ignite that extra spark of emotion, as if it wasn’t already burning.
There’s a moment roughly halfway through the film when Charlie and Nicole sit in Charlie’s all-but-barren Los Angeles apartment, and in silence. The attempt to thwart said silence is taken by Nicole, who says, “I thought we should talk,” though neither she nor Charlie, as he points out, “know how to start.” Within minutes, the film’s most emotional, if not best scene unfolds, a war of words between the two in which regrettable indignities and affronts are delivered unapologetically, while in reality, the apologies are bound to come. It’s crushing because it’s familiar, whether you’ve been divorced twice or happily married for 31 years. Two moments in time — the abashed silence; the fight you can’t see yourself coming back from — unfolding in immediate succession, yet another element of reality that makes Baumbach’s film so brilliant.
It doesn’t have the universality that The Squid and the Whale has, nor does it have the desire of The Meyerowitz Stories (New and Selected), which, as IndieWire’s David Ehrlich wrote, “would rather tend to its wounds than watch them bleed.” A bit of blood seeps through the bandage here (or shirt sleeve… you’ll see), which is a masterful approach at depicting the heartbreak these two endure.
I imagine no divorce is too pleasant; the wounds are bound to bleed for a bit, so perhaps there’s no sense in rushing the clot. Instead, Baumbach and his wonderful stars and ensemble allow the wound to heal naturally. It’s a tactic that might take more time, and may result in some kind of deformity. It resembles what the skin looked like before, but doesn’t look as pristine it once did. Marriage Story is quite like this proverbial gash. It hurts and continues to hurt, but eventually, it heals and, as a narrative, is one of the more beautiful narratives you’ll see. Charlie and Nicole may not come out the same as they went in; perhaps that’s life. Or maybe it’s the story of a marriage.
Grade: A
Marriage Story premiered at the Telluride Film Festival in September and screened at the Woodstock Film Festival, among others. It opens in select theaters on November 6 and premieres on Netflix on December 6.
Critic's Notebook - A Will Bjarnar Blog 