Review: Happiness

I can see why critics would call Happiness bold and brilliant. It tackles a taboo -- pedophilia -- and plunks it in the midst of a coal-black comedy. It's a multi-tiered narrative that is well-structured and paced with characters that repulse and enthrall, often at the same time. It all but screams social commentary. And it's written and directed by indie darling Todd Solondz, whose debut Welcome to the Dollhouse was beloved by critics. But here is what must be asked: is it relevant? Is it good? What is it trying to say?

Happiness seems to take Dostoevsky's belief that suffering is the key to existence and maximize it into a two hour, fourteen minute mini-epic. Three sisters (how Chekhovian!) are in various states of unhappiness. One is oblivious to it, one manufactures it and the other truly lives it. Trish (Cynthia Stevenson) is an indefatigably perky suburban housewife who is married to Bill (Dylan Baker), a therapist who harbors murderous thoughts and a fondness for little boys. Helen (Lara Flynn Boyle) is a glamorous and successful writer who voluntarily lives in New Jersey and wishes her writing were more emotionally authentic ("If only I'd been raped as a child, then I'd know authenticity.") Little does she know that her next door neighbor Allen (Philip Seymour Hoffman), one of Bill's patients, is infatuated with her and makes obscene phone calls every so often. He himself is oblivious to the advances of his next door neighbor, Kristina (recent Emmy winner and Boyle's The Practice co-star Camryn Manheim).

Despite their insecurities, Trish and Helen feel far superior to their sister Joy (Jane Adams), a painfully sensitive bohemian who finds herself romanced by a Russian cabdriver (Jared Harris) who does a little thieving on the side. "Somehow you always seemed so doomed to failure," Trish tells Joy to further erode her self-esteem. Trish later boasts to her husband, "She's not like me. She doesn't have it all." This after, unbeknownst to her, Bill has been masturbating to a teenybopper magazine in the back seat of his openly parked car. "I wish I had your life," Helen confides to Trish. "I'm just so tired of being admired all the time." The pecking order of the sisters is shrewd partly because the sniping hits the mark but it's also a way to deflect from the sniper's own vulnerabilities.

So who are we to spotlight amidst this cast of characters? Though the leading trio of actresses are fine -- Stevenson is a natural comic gem; Boyle is as smoky as ever but the smoke burns this time; Adams absolutely glows -- it is Manheim who provides the film with its most intriguing female character. Her revelation to the stupefied Allen and the moments following it are a perfect example of Solondz's marriage of macabre and mockery. There is definitely life beyond television for her.

The movie's most controversial element, however, involves the relationship Bill shares with his son Billy (an impressive Rufus Read), who is fast approaching manhood. Their father-son talks are staged like those in Leave It to Beaver, except its subject would have given Ward Cleaver a massive coronary. Billy feels awkward that he hasn't ejaculated yet: "Everyone else in class has and I want to come, too." Bill addresses his son's concerns in a straightforward manner -- perhaps all parents should be as forthright with sex as Bill is but that message won't be so heartily embraced especially since the one doling out the advice happens to be a pedophile. Baker's is a brave performance only in the sense that he's taken the risk of portraying a pedophile. Not exactly the ticket to stardom. He does find shadings -- it's highly amusing to watch Bill try to get his son's playmate, Johnny, to eat the tuna sandwich that contains a sleeping pill -- but the droning monotony of the character's persona prevents any genuine outbreak of sympathy.

But, really, what is the point Solondz is trying to make? That monsters are human? That evil lurks within the unlikeliest hearts? That happiness is not often found? Happiness is a film rife with filibuster silences and semen shots (someone explain to me how semen became so trendy) but its truths have been explored in previous films. Being unconventional doesn't necessarily bring about any deeper enlightenment. Happiness is clearly not the sum of its parts: there are some momentous scenes but it doesn't fully gel into a momentous film.

The scene that does excavate a human truth is one where Billy confronts his dad about the rumors that he had sex with his playmate, Johnny. Bill doesn't shy away; his answers are as frank as ever. "What was it like?" Billy asks. "It was great." "Would you do it again?" "Yes." "Would you ever fuck me?" "No. I'd jerk off instead." The sequence is played with hesitancy and tears. What is extraordinary about the scene -- which prevents Happiness from achieving total boredom -- is the reaction of the boy. The impact of Bill's statement -- "No. I'd jerk off instead." -- on Billy is not that daddy has sex with little boys but rather that daddy doesn't love me enough to fuck me. That is raw, that disturbs, that mortifies. It is the awesome strength of that scene that leads your brain into thinking that the whole film is extraordinary. But it is not, it is just that that scene that amazes.

But, even then, is it relevant? I think it's at least more relevant than the scene where a dog who has just lapped up some semen goes and licks a woman's face. Now what is the point of that? What is the point of that scene? It's knee-jerk funny, it'll raise conservative ire, but why further degrade that character. Believe me, I'm offended by very few things and there was little in the film that I found offensive. What I do object to is unnecessity and that scene was beyond needlessness. There's a difference between significance and abuse and Solondz needs to learn the difference to be a better filmmaker.

Happiness

Directed by: Todd Solondz

Written by: Todd Solondz

Starring: Jane Adams, Elizabeth Ashley, Dylan Baker, Lara Flynn Boyle, Ben Gazzara, Jared Harris, Louise Lasser, Jon Lovitz, Camryn Manheim, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Molly Shannon, Cynthia Stevenson