Infidelity in cinema is nothing new. Much like the boiling conflicts of war or the inevitable fissures of generations old and new, the inherent drama of infidelity has always been one of those clear cut and elemental driving forces that has the immediacy to color an entire movie. Reaction to it is almost automatic and the story, depending on who's telling it always seems to virtually write itself. Yet in the case of The Lovers, infidelity is less the flash of conflict as it is the strangely reserved starting point to a story about human peculiarities.
The esteemed Debra Winger and acclaimed playwright/due paying bit actor Tracy Letts play Mary and Michael, a middle-aged married couple whose loveless marriage is nearing its dispassionate end. Both barely hide their constant trysts with their respective inamoratos, both of whom are artists and both of whom remind Michael and Mary of who they once were. In the weeks before their estranged son Joel (Ross) is to visit, both simultaneously resolve to end their marriage. Yet as they come closer to the brink of separation, eros takes a hold of them, leading to an impulsive romance.
The beauty of The Lovers is it twists and turns in surprising yet painfully human ways. Every time you think you have a firm understanding of the characters at play, something unexpected yet so emphatically human breaches through and the movie gainfully searches for a new dynamic. It's all to our delight. Behind the film's reserved almost dusty demeanor lies a barely hidden heart threatening to burst at the seams. The film for the most part stays true to its quiet composure. Yet in a few key moments the movie almost seems to glitter with the emotional resonance reserved to it welling romantic score.
Director Azazel Jacobs does wonders with his workmanlike camera-work. It's purposeful fluidity and literate use of space sells a particular kind of drollness. One that can take the innate beauty of Southern California and make it fade in the background against two deeply flawed characters and their increasingly desperate counterparts. Yet what sells The Lovers's admittedly indie aesthetic, is the film's central foursome; Letts, Winger, Aiden Gillen and Melora Walters. Their reactions to the duplicity, then the double duplicity carries the entirety of the script in their eyes, their body-language, their placement in the room. One could put the film on mute and gleam everything apart from the names.
The film as a whole is meant to be a meditation on mature love; a prospect that sometimes falters under the weight of the film's melancholy tone. This is not to say the tone is the problem but rather The Lovers's beat-by-beat story flirts a little too much with melodrama for something not to eventually give. And yes, the movie risks breaking down completely during its final act with the arrival of a coarse Tyler Ross, who slumps in the middle of the film's delicate and disquieting frame, and call out its bulls**t with the subtlety of a bullhorn.
Thanks to the unforced earnestness of Winger and Letts (and an oddly perfect song selection), The Lovers finds it within itself to bounce back like a seasoned dancer after a minor trip. What results, may not be the most well-observed study of needy, perilously unhappy people. Yet considering how counterfeit a lot of movies feel nowadays it's nice to see something that attempts to find the audacity in the littlest of moments.
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