I don’t want to mock those who’d appreciate Carnage, Roman Polanski’s latest film, because I can be counted among that number. *loosens collar, Rodney Dangerfield-style*  But the sort of people who will enjoy Carnage are the sort of people who are characters in Carnage.  Middle- and upper-middle-class, educated, glib, politically-correct, self-satisfied, pretentious, egocentric, snobbish  people… in a good way, of course.  

I’ll confess that after the first 15 minutes, even I was nearly ready to pack it in. The characters were just so…annoying…and the premise seemed so artificial and forced.  However, I soldiered on, and soon found myself caught up in the fun, being moderately charmed and entertained by the arch dialogue and the sharp performances.  This is a minor work but it’s intelligently witty and provides a diverting 75 minutes or so.  But if I, a member of my imagined target demographic audience for the film (as defined in the opening paragraph), nearly walked out, what hope could there be for wider audience acceptance of Polanski’s movie?  Not much, I fear.  This is one of those “East Coast intellectual” pictures, aimed at the same audience that goes to see Woody Allen films. 

Carnage is a filmed adaptation of a stage play, with only four characters, that unfolds in “real time” in a Manhattan apartment, with all of the formal and intellectual baggage that comes with those strictures.  Polanski makes no attempt to “open up” the play, but converts it to a slick, seamless, “zero-degree” film that allows the actors and the dialogue to take center stage.  Sure, it’s “talky” but the talk is interesting.  Yes, you want to punch the characters in their smug faces much of the time, but then they say or do something that makes you stay your hand and give them another chance to redeem themselves.  You might not like them, but by the end of the movie you understand them (a little) and perhaps even empathise with them (a bit).

Maybe I didn’t delve deep enough, but I don’t think Carnage is especially profound.  It says a little about middle-aged ennui, about the stresses of work and family, about the desire of people to find something beyond their daily drudgery, to discover a talent or an interest that makes them unique and validates their existence…but Death of a Salesman this is not.  It’s a scathing comedy which picks on sitting ducks in an amusing way, but we don’t really learn anything and we don’t come away from the film feeling enlightened or improved.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that: being entertained is a good enough result. Carnage isn’t pretentious, it’s about pretension…and pretense.

One fall afternoon, lawyer Alan Cowan and his investment banker wife Nancy visit the apartment of hardware salesman Michael Longstreet and his wife Penelope (whom Mike introduces as a “writer,” although she modestly demurs—she also works in a bookstore) to discuss an after-school incident in which the Cowan’s young son struck the Longstreet’s son, knocking out two teeth.  Everyone is ultra-civilised, sharing coffee and Penelope’s pear & apple cobbler, dispensing politically-correct platitudes and psycho-babble about the need to help their offspring learn life lessons about their disagreement.  The Cowans are somewhat above the Longstreets in the socio-economic spectrum, a fact emphasized by their clothing, their jobs, and their slightly condescending attitude, although they are on the defensive at first, since their son was the aggressor.  Alan repeatedly interrupts the couples’ conversation to take phone calls about a pending crisis with a client, a motif that—like Penelope’s cobbler—will have repercussions later in the film.  The coldly polite Nancy appears to be controlled, even repressed, until she gets some 18-year-old Scotch in her.  Mike seems like a jolly, salt-of-the-earth fellow but has his foibles, and Penelope is outwardly almost a caricature of a politically-correct, socially-aware, intellectually-pretentious, insecure individual.  These, however, are just first impressions.  As the afternoon wears on, we will get to know these couples in much more detail.

Carnage cleverly introduces the characters, sets up its initial premise, then spends the next 75 minutes veering off into peripherally-related topics.  Each character is revealed a bit more, the original dialectic—Cowans versus Longstreets—shifts several times (including, as one might expect, a “men vs. women” phase), and there are a few outbursts which, as mild as they really are, seem all the more shocking because we can’t imagine “such people” losing their temper (or vomiting) in front of strangers. [Note to filmmakers of the world: I do not like movies in which people vomit.  Please keep this in mind when making your next film.  Thank you.]  

As noted above, Roman Polanski doesn’t draw attention to his directorial “style” in Carnage: the camera angles, editing, and so forth are slick but unobstrusive.  This is an actors’ film, not a director’s film.  The performances are top-notch: John C. Reilly, Jodie Foster, Christoph “In Every Movie Now” Waltz, and Kate Winslet are excellent, all of them.  No complaints on that score from me, though I’m not sure anyone here deserves the Oscar buzz.  These are just good, professional actors doing their job, there’s nothing…transcendent about the performances.

Allow me to clarify my opening statement a bit.  I don’t mean to imply that only snarky urban yuppies would appreciate Carnage.  Rather, I fear that the snarky urban yuppies (well, forty-ish yuppies) in Carnage may drive away potential viewers who aren’t snarky, urban, or yuppies (does anyone even say “yuppie” any more?).  Not because the audience can’t “identify” with them—if that were true, there’d be no films about coal miners, or “foreigners,” or vampires—but because, at first glance, these are just the sort of people you would not want to spend 75 minutes with.  

That’s a shame, because if you stay the course, you’ll be rewarded with a clever, not at all boring, and really quite enjoyable little film.