February 26 2003

PAULINE KAEL GAVE so many of her books sexually receptive titles that it seemed like she was just wet and wild and ready for action every time she hit that cushioned seat. She Lost It at the Movies, but these days, you can't give it away. It's a miracle when the hookup does occur; the movies I've dug lately are so uniquely loved by me that I don't have to worry about the competition – they enter and leave the theaters at speed-dating velocity. A Los Angeles Times critic said of Gus Van Sant's Gerry that only five people will like it. She's one, and I'm two, so there are three of you left out there. Let's all meet for coffee.

We can discuss why Gerry is the best American movie made in a long, long time. It may be because it's the least "American" of those films in a long, long time – running as far and fast as it can from the recent trends and dead ends of Indiewood. It takes superstar actors and forces them to act like amateurs ( i.e., themselves). All of the dialogue in the entire script could probably occupy two pages. The story moves forward at a shuffle, until desperation hits, at which point it slows to a death crawl and the notion of "forward" movement itself is in question. If you squirm, it's not under the threat of the next explosive plot twist, or some boppy convenient-for-marketing soundtrack, or unconscionable THX noise. You may actually be squirming because the film asks you to ponder the most uncomfortable question facing humanity as you watch, in long takes, two guys wander through a desert landscape with absolutely no idea how to get out: Why bother?

The question is all the more profound because it isn't elevated to untouchable respectability (à la The Endurance); neither is it commuted into the black comedy of survivalism. These guys are fucked, lost without a map, or water, or a clue because, simply, fanny packs are so uncool. Instead of bringing along a Philip Glass soundtrack to follow them on their harrowing journey to test the indomitable spirit of mankind, Van Sant packs a portable camera that conveys the kind of quirky intimacy that was his trademark before his career went Hollywood haywire (think back to Mala Noche, or River Phoenix and a campfire in My Own Private Idaho, then take your LSD flash-forward to Even Cowgirls Get the Blues). He doesn't so much follow characters as trace a relationship between two "guys," dudes who banter, joke, and jeer, the kind who might die, and nearly do, before they'd cry in front of their mates, but who are, eventually, forced to. Van Sant doesn't make us choke on their bravery until, finally, we're choked up by it.

The two characters have a language of their own, and the most commonly used word in it is "Gerry," a proper noun, verb, and adjective that describes any kind of lame behavior or person. Yet if they Gerried their way into this mess, they're only going to Gerry their way out again. Instead of feats of physical or mental prowess, the qualities of a survivor Van Sant offers are arrogance, humor, and naïveté. To our horror, they make each other laugh just seconds away from a death they can't allow themselves to see; the plot hinges on whether they have enough innocence to last all of the way through it.

I haven't dwelled on the names involved, but you know them: Van Sant, Matt Damon, and Casey Affleck. The biggest, however, is the one Van Sant's been dropping every time he talks about his inspiration for the film: Béla Tarr, the Hungarian filmmaker whose slow-moving, many-houred epics force viewers to adjust to his real time, which is several paces slower than yours. His films are delicious tortures that spin in circles until viewers are as drunk and unsettled as the characters they've been living with for seven-plus hours. By comparison, Van Sant's is a mini, but he attempts the same dance with the elements – his being mountains, clouds, dirt, and the bodies of two young men. If you have a problem looking at Damon's torso for long periods of time, I can say that maybe this movie really isn't for you. The biggest complaint I have is that Van Sant wasn't fully confident in his slow-going process and supplemented it with the gimmicky nature time-lapses he's used before.

Yet I wouldn't want to give the wrong impression. I have a thing for this film. I made the leap, as apparently, the actors did – playing what appears to be very close versions of themselves, in a relationship of not exactly equals. At one point Casey Affleck is stuck on a gigantic rock. His buddy, Matt, apparently the top, at first taunts him, then convinces him the only way down is to jump a scary distance onto hard turf. Along with Van Sant, whose career was taking yet more grim and impersonal turns with each bigger-budget pic he completed, they've landed on their feet, none of them broken.