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One of the most critically acclaimed films of 2005,
Me and You and Everyone We Know is also one of the most original feature debuts you're ever likely to see. Winner of the Camera d'or Award for best first film at the Cannes Film Festival, it's an altogether charming display of talent for writer, director, and costar Miranda July, a performance artist making a promising transition to film. Her loose-knit tale of love and longing encompasses a large cast of quirky and memorable characters, foremost among them being Christine (July), a forlorn dreamer who falls in love with Richard (John Hawkes, from HBO's
Deadwood), who's going through a traumatic divorce. Richard is desperate to be a good father to his seven- and 14-year-old sons, both of whom have experiences that push
Me and You to an almost perverse level of audacity, but July handles their potentially troubling scenes with such delicacy and tact that they seem almost miraculously innocent. The whole film is like that: It never,
ever goes where you think it's going to go, and every scene tingles with humor, affection and curiosity for its characters. As it turns routine days into joyous opportunities for discovery, July's remarkable film is not for all tastes, but if you're looking for something new, different, and defiantly out of the mainstream, this gentle comedy's for you.
--Jeff Shannon
Miranda July, who functions not just as the writer and director of her début but also as the star, plays an artist named Christine-hazy, shy, benign, and very possibly deranged. She falls for a shoe salesman (John Hawkes), who is recently separated and supposed to be caring for his two young sons. The elder boy (Miles Thompson) is seduced, and half humiliated, by a pair of underage girls; the younger (Brandon Ratcliff) logs onto pornographic chat rooms on the Internet. There is much distance and disaffection on parade, and we are meant to take it as coolly and uncomplainingly as the characters do, but that presumption rankles. There is, in fact, much to dislike here, and, for all the skill of the child actors, no amount of tidy payoffs can dispel the air of unpleasantness. In other areas, the movie is more relaxed, and some of the scruffy, shining cityscapes are a sorrowful joy to behold; whether you admire the outcome depends on whether you like the kind of picture in which the most spiritually urgent tribute is paid to a dead fish. -Anthony Lane
Copyright © 2006
The New Yorker