Sort of a Role-of-a-Lifetime thing for Joan Allen, who, after having spent years in the supporting-role trenches, probably deserves it. So, the inevitable question: is the movie built around her worth watching?
Eh, not really. But before I move on to the movie's structural faults, it's worth considering that another of the movie's faults just might be Allen's scene-stealing, scenery-chewing performance. Perhaps ill-advisedly encouraged by writer-director Mike Binder, Allen -- the actress -- behaves just as ungenerously to her fellow actors as the matriarch behaves towards her fictional daughters and other satellites like Kevin Costner's easy-going codependent neighbor. This is a shame, because the supporting cast (Evan Rachel Wood, Erika Christensen, Alicia Witt, and Keri Russell as the daughters, along with Costner and Binder) are quite charming and good in the film: they deserve better than to primarily exist as scratching-posts for the matriarch's petulance. Allen's character, while successfully conveying the distracted apportionment of care-giving and overall rearing to each of her kids (each of whom are pretty individualized, within the script's cramped parameters), is on the other hand too domineering to make us really like her. (Evan Rachel Wood continually narrates that her mother used to be a sweet-tempered person, but any evidence of sweetness left over from the past 50-odd years is lacking.) And LIKING her, it seems to me, would be a prerequisite in a movie like this, which, after all is said and done, is little more than an upscale *Lifetime* movie with a sprinkle of Woody-Allenian angst over it. Otherwise, we'll feel too encouraged to cheer when Costner breaks down her bathroom door after enduring one of her typical lacerating monologues. We'll perhaps feel a little too triumphant when Binder's character -- a sleazy radio talk-show producer egregiously dating one of Allen's daughters -- lays out to her in no uncertain terms why he's bedding the kid instead of her. (Allen, defeated, skulks over to the bar and falls off the wagon.)
But, after all, *The Upside of Anger* comes from the mind of *The Mind of the Married Man*, the aborted HBO comedy show that has become almost legendary for the misogyny cloaked under its middle-brow sophistication. Misogyny and middle-brow sophistication are certainly among THIS movie's problems. Binder's final insight seems to be: menopausal women can be grouchy! -- but they might get over it after awhile, as long as there's a non-threatening doofus (e.g., Costner's former jock) around who understands which one of them is wearing the proverbial pants. I suspect men will like this movie far more than they'll admit to, as it confirms their own opinions about uppity middle-aged rich broads. Imagine dating columnist Maureen Dowd! -- every man's worst nightmare. Clever women will probably glean what Binder's up to and therefore will not be fooled.
A final thought: Binder clearly doesn't know anything about the milieu of which he writes. You'll note that Allen has no lady-friends in the film: there are no socials at the country club; no Friends-of-the-Library gatherings; no slightly-Left-of-Center political Meetups. She's utterly without society, apart from her daughters and newfound drinking buddy Costner. This is all rather unlikely for a suburban duchess living in the genteel outskirts of Old Money Detroit. Even more unlikely, of course, is her nervous breakdown upon discovering that her husband has dumped her for his Swedish secretary. Quite apart from the knowledge that any divorce proceedings would be a slam-dunk in her favor, her new liberation would be far more joyful than Binder's "married mind" suspects. (Or fears.) In other words, it's not entirely clear what the hell this woman is so angry about: gorgeous house; four beautiful daughters; obliging hunk; lots of money. Given the current circumstances of the world, the problems presented here amount to a really small hill of beans.
3 stars out of 10.
Eh, not really. But before I move on to the movie's structural faults, it's worth considering that another of the movie's faults just might be Allen's scene-stealing, scenery-chewing performance. Perhaps ill-advisedly encouraged by writer-director Mike Binder, Allen -- the actress -- behaves just as ungenerously to her fellow actors as the matriarch behaves towards her fictional daughters and other satellites like Kevin Costner's easy-going codependent neighbor. This is a shame, because the supporting cast (Evan Rachel Wood, Erika Christensen, Alicia Witt, and Keri Russell as the daughters, along with Costner and Binder) are quite charming and good in the film: they deserve better than to primarily exist as scratching-posts for the matriarch's petulance. Allen's character, while successfully conveying the distracted apportionment of care-giving and overall rearing to each of her kids (each of whom are pretty individualized, within the script's cramped parameters), is on the other hand too domineering to make us really like her. (Evan Rachel Wood continually narrates that her mother used to be a sweet-tempered person, but any evidence of sweetness left over from the past 50-odd years is lacking.) And LIKING her, it seems to me, would be a prerequisite in a movie like this, which, after all is said and done, is little more than an upscale *Lifetime* movie with a sprinkle of Woody-Allenian angst over it. Otherwise, we'll feel too encouraged to cheer when Costner breaks down her bathroom door after enduring one of her typical lacerating monologues. We'll perhaps feel a little too triumphant when Binder's character -- a sleazy radio talk-show producer egregiously dating one of Allen's daughters -- lays out to her in no uncertain terms why he's bedding the kid instead of her. (Allen, defeated, skulks over to the bar and falls off the wagon.)
But, after all, *The Upside of Anger* comes from the mind of *The Mind of the Married Man*, the aborted HBO comedy show that has become almost legendary for the misogyny cloaked under its middle-brow sophistication. Misogyny and middle-brow sophistication are certainly among THIS movie's problems. Binder's final insight seems to be: menopausal women can be grouchy! -- but they might get over it after awhile, as long as there's a non-threatening doofus (e.g., Costner's former jock) around who understands which one of them is wearing the proverbial pants. I suspect men will like this movie far more than they'll admit to, as it confirms their own opinions about uppity middle-aged rich broads. Imagine dating columnist Maureen Dowd! -- every man's worst nightmare. Clever women will probably glean what Binder's up to and therefore will not be fooled.
A final thought: Binder clearly doesn't know anything about the milieu of which he writes. You'll note that Allen has no lady-friends in the film: there are no socials at the country club; no Friends-of-the-Library gatherings; no slightly-Left-of-Center political Meetups. She's utterly without society, apart from her daughters and newfound drinking buddy Costner. This is all rather unlikely for a suburban duchess living in the genteel outskirts of Old Money Detroit. Even more unlikely, of course, is her nervous breakdown upon discovering that her husband has dumped her for his Swedish secretary. Quite apart from the knowledge that any divorce proceedings would be a slam-dunk in her favor, her new liberation would be far more joyful than Binder's "married mind" suspects. (Or fears.) In other words, it's not entirely clear what the hell this woman is so angry about: gorgeous house; four beautiful daughters; obliging hunk; lots of money. Given the current circumstances of the world, the problems presented here amount to a really small hill of beans.
3 stars out of 10.