Husband and Wives attempts to navigate the tricky territory surrounding two married couples in their middle ages, one of which has suddenly announced their separation. Farrow's Judy takes the Allen role here; she is almost offended at this sudden change in their within their comfort, projecting hard and yet unable to accept that this is an outcome that she wants for herself. Allen's camera departs from its usual fare, the serenity in the stillness, the roving, unbroken long takes that let the performances and script shine. It whips backs and forth with the jerkiness and blurred vision of an intruder of this intimate moment, as unbelieving as Judy herself, shocked by the revelation. The dialogue does not pause for a witty insight - it is overlapping, interrupting, reflecting the fragmentation of their relationships to come (and which has perhaps already begun long ago).
Judy Davis is a marvel. She is the hit hard the most of the following events, despite how Farrow might act, because she is the one left initially alone, and her ex-husband has found a prettier and younger thing. And in just three weeks, no less; upon discovering this she whips up a fury that seems to charge the frames to rumble themselves. Davis is restless, trembling, a bundle of nervous energy openly and without inhibition. By contrast Jack seems to be having the time of his life, snuggling, teasing, kissing his new shiny partner, flaunting his rediscovery. Gabe predictably treats this as an intellectual sin: "You're IQ's gone into remission," he remarks. It is not like him.
The interactions in Husbands and Wives are wonderful because they are full to the brim of bitter, distrusting adults that have grown weary of keeping up appearances over a lifetime. The navigation of the business of love and romance and dating in these middles ages is a contemptuous battleground, full of baggage, frustration and insecurity. Judy asks her husband is she wants someone new, and underlines the question strongly with connotations of her own desires, but would sooner explode at his wrong answer first. He answers correctly, and flips the question back to her, and the atmosphere is stagnant with their dual dissatisfaction. Davis can barely contain her misery even after a wonderful night, her voiced enjoyment undercut by a biting scorn at Mahler's sentimentalism or watery Alfredo sauce.
The faux-documentary style is appropriate when we are witnessing characters and relationships exploding and releasing a storm of emotions, and yet at times it takes away from the moment. Aside from the hand-held there are also snippets of talking heads, snap zooms and injections of the snappy narrator's comments, but they feel like stealing ripe opportunities right from under our noses, moments of truth and vulnerability in-between the play-acting. Case in point: Judy has all but set up her dream date for Michael and Sally, and is swooning at his descriptions of the night out. The dramatic irony of the sudden rainstorm during their lunch is the universe openly mocking her chances. And yet the culmination of all this is Farrow merely voicing her envy to the camera. Why not follow her shuffling away to the other room, sitting down and breathing hard, letting the take linger until it becomes uncomfortable? Let Farrow act, let her display that tremendous and natural vulnerability within her.
The editing is vicious, even more so than when it exposed Alvy Singer's hypocrisy in Annie Hall. It cuts deep down into the married couples instabilities, juxtaposing the fiery highs and the nostalgic lows into a flurry of realisation. He departs to follow a similar path as Jack, chasing after the metaphorical lost youth. Because it is a purely physical affair, he ignores the warning signs, the fictitious nature of her stormy and tempestuous personality. But surprisingly there is a reversal. She comes to fetishise his maturity and intellectualism, which is a dream come true for the Allen type, but he falters. There are thunderstorms, birthday wishes and candles, all set up for him, but he does not characteristically pounce. This is not a clumsy autobiographical element as many have proposed. Rain criticises (and rightfully, if you are familiar with the Allen type) the less savoury aspects of his novel, and initiates the moment. But he admits that "I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't want to get hurt.", and realises that it will not last. A romantic illusion, but a comfortable one for some.
Judy Davis is a marvel. She is the hit hard the most of the following events, despite how Farrow might act, because she is the one left initially alone, and her ex-husband has found a prettier and younger thing. And in just three weeks, no less; upon discovering this she whips up a fury that seems to charge the frames to rumble themselves. Davis is restless, trembling, a bundle of nervous energy openly and without inhibition. By contrast Jack seems to be having the time of his life, snuggling, teasing, kissing his new shiny partner, flaunting his rediscovery. Gabe predictably treats this as an intellectual sin: "You're IQ's gone into remission," he remarks. It is not like him.
The interactions in Husbands and Wives are wonderful because they are full to the brim of bitter, distrusting adults that have grown weary of keeping up appearances over a lifetime. The navigation of the business of love and romance and dating in these middles ages is a contemptuous battleground, full of baggage, frustration and insecurity. Judy asks her husband is she wants someone new, and underlines the question strongly with connotations of her own desires, but would sooner explode at his wrong answer first. He answers correctly, and flips the question back to her, and the atmosphere is stagnant with their dual dissatisfaction. Davis can barely contain her misery even after a wonderful night, her voiced enjoyment undercut by a biting scorn at Mahler's sentimentalism or watery Alfredo sauce.
The faux-documentary style is appropriate when we are witnessing characters and relationships exploding and releasing a storm of emotions, and yet at times it takes away from the moment. Aside from the hand-held there are also snippets of talking heads, snap zooms and injections of the snappy narrator's comments, but they feel like stealing ripe opportunities right from under our noses, moments of truth and vulnerability in-between the play-acting. Case in point: Judy has all but set up her dream date for Michael and Sally, and is swooning at his descriptions of the night out. The dramatic irony of the sudden rainstorm during their lunch is the universe openly mocking her chances. And yet the culmination of all this is Farrow merely voicing her envy to the camera. Why not follow her shuffling away to the other room, sitting down and breathing hard, letting the take linger until it becomes uncomfortable? Let Farrow act, let her display that tremendous and natural vulnerability within her.
The editing is vicious, even more so than when it exposed Alvy Singer's hypocrisy in Annie Hall. It cuts deep down into the married couples instabilities, juxtaposing the fiery highs and the nostalgic lows into a flurry of realisation. He departs to follow a similar path as Jack, chasing after the metaphorical lost youth. Because it is a purely physical affair, he ignores the warning signs, the fictitious nature of her stormy and tempestuous personality. But surprisingly there is a reversal. She comes to fetishise his maturity and intellectualism, which is a dream come true for the Allen type, but he falters. There are thunderstorms, birthday wishes and candles, all set up for him, but he does not characteristically pounce. This is not a clumsy autobiographical element as many have proposed. Rain criticises (and rightfully, if you are familiar with the Allen type) the less savoury aspects of his novel, and initiates the moment. But he admits that "I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't want to get hurt.", and realises that it will not last. A romantic illusion, but a comfortable one for some.