By Juan Barquin
By Amy Nicholson
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Travis Cohen
By Juan Barquin
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Amy Nicholson
By Juan Barquin
It's hard to fault The House of Yes, the wry toast of this year's Sundance Film Festival, for its limitations as a film. In fact, it's hardly a film at all -- rather, it's a barely staged, five-handed farce that trails its amiable cast around a looming Victorian mansion over the course of a dramatically stormy weekend.
Adapted by San Francisco theater director Mark Waters from a play by Wendy MacLeod, it's mannered to the point of hysteria, with brittle fusillades of dialogue that Ping-Pong around the set, often seemingly out of the actors' control. Nor is it as black or as comic as it ought to be, despite the dark "secret" shared by the principals. But for those to whom Albee is only a distant memory, or who crave any relief at all from the oppressive pall of Hollywood cadences -- theatrical or not -- The House of Yes will come as a welcome respite from the dog days of summer spectacle.
The action takes place during a family reunion over Thanksgiving weekend 1983 -- twenty years to the day after the Kennedy assassination -- in an affluent D.C. suburb just across the way from one of the (no doubt many) Kennedy compounds. Yet unlike The Myth of Fingerprints or the upcoming The Ice Storm, two postmortems of dysfunctional families that manage to balance absurdism and pathos without departing from plausible realism, The House of Yes goes off the scale in its garish caricatures. The self-appointed "Jackie-O" (the ubiquitous Parker Posey) falls in and out of institutions and medicated fogs, negotiating a bit of a Bouvier fixation. But she's on her best behavior in anticipation of the arrival of Marty (Josh Hamilton), her twin, confidant, and soul mate, who has somehow escaped to New York, where people aren't nearly so crazy.
Younger brother Anthony (Freddie Prinze, Jr., son of you know who) has abandoned life at a prestigious college to return to this bastion of reason. Presiding over the resident chaos is Genevieve Bujold as the footloose matriarch, whose husband disappeared the day Camelot crumbled. Or is he dead and buried out in the back yard? No one seems to know for sure. When Marty shows up with a fiancee (Tori Spelling, daughter of you know who), headsnaps ensue.
To be fair, everyone involved performs admirably. Bujold, acting as though she were recently airlifted from the asylum in King of Hearts, is as Old World elegant as the moldering drapes and brings a refreshing sense of European propriety to these textbook eccentrics. Hamilton, Posey's costar from Kicking and Screaming, seems amenable to helping her re-create the Zapruder film on demand, yet he looks far too well-adjusted to be party to this madness. Even Prinze is affable enough, although he seems too schlubby and streetwise to be related to these people. Yet it's hard to see past that name, and the problem with untimely tragedy in his own family tree, which threatens to reduce his casting to mere novelty.
Likewise Spelling; she's surprisingly pleasant playing broad comedy, although her wide-eyed disingenuousness does little to keep the farce at bay. Still, there's her father's name as the financing entity, the roughly million-dollar budget certainly far less an investment than a good-size graduation gift.
But ultimately how you feel about this film depends on how you feel about Posey, the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi of independent cinema. She was bestowed the socialist-realist Special Recognition for Acting Award at Sundance for her appearance here -- an award apparently created especially for her. (She was also on display in Clockwatchers and subUrbia, not to mention the scads of media attention she selflessly commandeered.) Some of us find her charming (I guess, kind of), but a little goes a long way.
There's a reason you don't see Posey effortlessly slipping in and out of Hollywood factory issues like her fellow indie divas Julianne Moore and Lili Taylor. Her constant mugging and self-involvement subsume any character she elects to essay; she sucks up all the oxygen in the room. I realize she may be the new Madonna to twenty-year-old starlet wannabes everywhere. But even the old Madonna became a bit much to take after a while; you risk overexposure when you act in everything that comes along.
Meanwhile, the entire Kennedy conceit seems spot-welded and ill-advised. No doubt it's intended as an indictment of privilege, the "house of yes" being the class-based immunity that has crippled that particular dynasty. But the Kennedy myth is top-loaded with far more symbology than simple American wealth. The missing-in-action patriarch who presumably inspired this twisted legacy: What was he? An ogre and a sybarite? A Norma Desmond-creating celebrity arriviste? A nouveau riche criminal whose betrayal of his own dark origins led hubrislike to this tragedy? The film never says.
Similarly, we wonder about the younger brother. Is he heir apparent to this throne? Secretly ruthless or vindictive? Does the brothers' common romance of the supposedly glamorous outsider belie any Marilyn subtext? The play washes its hands of the whole business, contenting itself with the pink chenille suit and pillbox hat Jackie-O capers about in. It was funny twenty years ago on the Animal House parade float, and it's funny here. You'd just expect more from Kennedy obsessives.
Then again, it's not The Peacemaker. In this day and age, that's something.
The House of Yes.
Written and directed by Mark Waters, adapted from the play by Wendy MacLeod; with Parker Posey, Josh Hamilton, Genevieve Bujold, Tori Spelling, and Freddie Prinze, Jr.
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