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One of the first things we see Roger Greenberg (Ben Stiller) doing is drafting a letter to American Airlines after a lengthy flight from New York. He is an expatriate for the time being, house-sitting for six weeks while his hotel-builder brother (Chris Messina) checks out investment opportunities in Vietnam with his family. A near-prophetic complainer, Greenberg articulately scrutinizes aisle width, seat comfort, and leg space. Later, he will read aloud a similar letter to Mayor Michael Bloomberg concerning noise pollution. His annoyance is pathological; it doesn't matter if no one reads the letters.
What does matter to Greenberg, the namesake of Noah Baumbach's perceptive and very beautiful new film, is the past. In his desperate longing for what once was, he fits right in with Baumbach's lineage of lost boys who, through the miracles of modern aging, became men. Greenberg doesn't just hold onto a record contract he once refused like Bernard Berkman holds onto his failed novels or Grover held onto college and the girl he fell for: He doubles back on everything, including a relationship with his now-separated ex (Jennifer Jason Leigh, who co-wrote the story with husband Baumbach) and a friendship with erstwhile band mate Ivan (the invaluable Rhys Ifans).
The arrival of the brother's assistant Florence (Greta Gerwig) into his life doesn't break as much as aggravate this holding pattern. Their first encounter ends with her scoring him whiskey and ice cream sandwiches; the second one climaxes with them sharing a beer and making out. But romance (if we're using that term) in a Baumbach film is never simple and becomes something akin to psychological water-boarding. Florence is tender, understanding, and uncontrollably honest when uncomfortable -- three traits that offer a smorgasbord of opportunities for Greenberg to ruin a good thing.
Despite Greenberg's expertise in shutting people out -- he gets riled whenever vulnerability rears its head -- Florence remains in his life, thanks mostly to a sickly german shepherd and Greenberg's inability to drive. (Indeed, the act of driving is returned to consistently as both a metaphorical punching-bag and a reminder of place.) Baumbach's L.A. is a force that Greenberg reckons with the same way he wrestles with his feelings for Florence: He walks in a city of cars and takes to a swimming pool the way most take to a colonoscopy. The great cinematographer Harry Savides opens the film with the thick haze of pollution that hangs over L.A. before searching and finding pockets of light and clarity. Baumbach will spend the rest of the film lifting the metaphysical haze off of Greenberg.
A great mane of slightly graying hair sitting atop his head, Stiller not only teases the prospect of Baumbach's most commercially viable film to date but also elevates a side of his talent that has gone largely unheralded. At his best (The Royal Tenenbaums, the underrated Zero Effect), he has balanced volatile emotions and a restrained demeanor with startling effectiveness. Interacting with the talented, naturalistic Gerwig, Stiller deftly realizes Greenberg's panicked sense of mortality and an echoing chasm of sadness without short-circuiting his immense charm and humor. He has given funnier performances, but he has never been this instinctual and yet inscrutably complex.
The morning after a college party, which includes a brilliantly placed playing of Duran Duran's "The Chauffeur," Greenberg finally sees something clearly in the midst of running away once more -- this time to Australia. In the morning paper, he sees that someone has read and responded to one of his letters and is relatively unaffected. But when someone is finally ready to hear the inner monologue that he has kept repressed for so long, we see real hope for the first time in Greenberg and, for that matter, Greenberg.
What does matter to Greenberg, the namesake of Noah Baumbach's perceptive and very beautiful new film, is the past. In his desperate longing for what once was, he fits right in with Baumbach's lineage of lost boys who, through the miracles of modern aging, became men. Greenberg doesn't just hold onto a record contract he once refused like Bernard Berkman holds onto his failed novels or Grover held onto college and the girl he fell for: He doubles back on everything, including a relationship with his now-separated ex (Jennifer Jason Leigh, who co-wrote the story with husband Baumbach) and a friendship with erstwhile band mate Ivan (the invaluable Rhys Ifans).
The arrival of the brother's assistant Florence (Greta Gerwig) into his life doesn't break as much as aggravate this holding pattern. Their first encounter ends with her scoring him whiskey and ice cream sandwiches; the second one climaxes with them sharing a beer and making out. But romance (if we're using that term) in a Baumbach film is never simple and becomes something akin to psychological water-boarding. Florence is tender, understanding, and uncontrollably honest when uncomfortable -- three traits that offer a smorgasbord of opportunities for Greenberg to ruin a good thing.
Despite Greenberg's expertise in shutting people out -- he gets riled whenever vulnerability rears its head -- Florence remains in his life, thanks mostly to a sickly german shepherd and Greenberg's inability to drive. (Indeed, the act of driving is returned to consistently as both a metaphorical punching-bag and a reminder of place.) Baumbach's L.A. is a force that Greenberg reckons with the same way he wrestles with his feelings for Florence: He walks in a city of cars and takes to a swimming pool the way most take to a colonoscopy. The great cinematographer Harry Savides opens the film with the thick haze of pollution that hangs over L.A. before searching and finding pockets of light and clarity. Baumbach will spend the rest of the film lifting the metaphysical haze off of Greenberg.
A great mane of slightly graying hair sitting atop his head, Stiller not only teases the prospect of Baumbach's most commercially viable film to date but also elevates a side of his talent that has gone largely unheralded. At his best (The Royal Tenenbaums, the underrated Zero Effect), he has balanced volatile emotions and a restrained demeanor with startling effectiveness. Interacting with the talented, naturalistic Gerwig, Stiller deftly realizes Greenberg's panicked sense of mortality and an echoing chasm of sadness without short-circuiting his immense charm and humor. He has given funnier performances, but he has never been this instinctual and yet inscrutably complex.
The morning after a college party, which includes a brilliantly placed playing of Duran Duran's "The Chauffeur," Greenberg finally sees something clearly in the midst of running away once more -- this time to Australia. In the morning paper, he sees that someone has read and responded to one of his letters and is relatively unaffected. But when someone is finally ready to hear the inner monologue that he has kept repressed for so long, we see real hope for the first time in Greenberg and, for that matter, Greenberg.
