A critical assessment of the merits of a subject, such as art, film, music, television, food and literature. Reviews are based on the writer鈥檚 informed/expert opinion.
You can鈥檛 make a horror movie these days without getting your thematic ducks in a row, and “Together” is no exception. Michael Shanks鈥檚 new thriller is from the school of show-and-tell-but-mostly-tell. If you couldn鈥檛 intuit from the film鈥檚 visceral, skin-to-skin marketing imagery that its storyline 鈥 about a husband and wife suffering bizarre physical and psychological symptoms after moving to the country 鈥 is meant to be a metaphor for the perils of codependency, the dialogue serves to helpfully annotate the proceedings at regular intervals.
鈥淪ome time apart would be good,鈥 says Millie (Alison Brie) to her husband Tim (Dave Franco), as the latter packs for a return overnight trip to the city. He agrees, but instead of catching a train, he wanders aimlessly back to Millie鈥檚 workplace and propositions her in the men鈥檚 room 鈥 a romantic gesture that quickly turns grotesque when they鈥檙e unable to decouple their lower bodies post-coitus.
As sight gags go, the spectacle of lovers who literally can鈥檛 keep their hands off each other has a certain giggly friction. The dichotomy between desperate, all-consuming sexual desire and potentially grievous bodily harm is a worthwhile subject; in 2001, the great French director Claire Denis unleashed her controversial neo-vampire saga “Trouble Every Day,” which scandalized the Cannes Film Festival and inaugurated the millennial cycle of metaphorical body horror that “Together” is trying to capitalize on and spoof at the same time.
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The issue isn鈥檛 that Shanks鈥檚 film is derivative, exactly (unless you count the charges of plagiarism recently leveled by another screenwriter), but that it squanders the palpable chemistry between its leads, who are married in real life 鈥 shades of Cruise and Kidman in “Eyes Wide Shut,” minus the world-historical stakes of that collaboration.
The juiciest “Together” gets is during its prologue, which mines a fertile and relatable vein of relationship cringe. Having grown impatient waiting for her 鈥渂oy partner鈥 to pop the question, Millie gets down on her knees in front of her friends and loved ones only for Tim to freeze in the clutch.
But instead of slowly and genuinely developing the growing dysfunction between its protagonists 鈥 and linking it to some larger analysis about millennial monogamy 鈥 Shanks barrels hell-bent into high-concept genre territory, introducing supernatural elements without even a hint of ambiguity.
If the best horror movies are the ones that trap the characters (and the audience) in a twilight zone where it鈥檚 hard to say definitely whether something spooky is going on, “Together” opts to pile on backstory and lore 鈥 more than its slender setup can support. The more context we get about why Tim and Millie are tearing themselves apart, the less pressurized the proceedings become.
For every creepy composition or striking bit of staging, there鈥檚 a cheap, predictable jump scare. Eventually, it鈥檚 clear the movie isn鈥檛 above such conventions, but sutured together from them.
As for the gore 鈥 which earned plenty of hype when “Together” bowed earlier this year on the festival circuit 鈥 it鈥檚 OK. There are a couple of makeup effects that could send viewers with weak constitutions fleeing from the theatre, and yet, for all of this violently flayed skin and ensuing adventures in amateur surgery (鈥淣ever let me use that,鈥 laughs Tim ominously when he unboxes their electric carving knife), the film鈥檚 action feels weirdly bloodless, as if drained of any real B-movie vitality.
By trying to split the difference between cruel and cute 鈥 a dichotomy topped off with the year鈥檚 most ironic pop needle-drop 鈥 “Together” cuts itself off from the essence of pulp pleasure.
AN
Adam Nayman is a Toronto-based critic, lecturer and author. He
is a freelance contributor for the Star. Follow him on Twitter:
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