Justin Kirk, Julianne Nicholson, Rebecca Schull
Directed by Jeff Lipsky
Rated R
Opens Friday
Flannel Pajamas is not a movie. It’s an artsy filmmaking exercise that lasts 7,440 seconds (and trust me, you’ll be counting it in seconds). It’s one of those films that shuns most filmmaking conventions in the hopes of capturing “raw reality,” and as such, it reminded me of Andy Warhol’s black-and-white silent film Empire, which was an eight-hour still shot of the Empire State Building. Given the choice between paying to bore myself with one or the other, I’d probably go with Empire, because a building would never incite me to shout, “Shut up and get divorced already!”
That’s not to say that this mundane tale of the rise and fall of a relationship evokes much emotion. Creating empathy is far too mainstream for a project like this.
Is it real? Yes. It feels like I’m really watching two exceptionally boring people I hardly know and certainly dislike fall inexplicably in love and subsequently get sick of each other. First, they fall in love, and when you’re watching from a third-person perspective, and you can’t feel the passion, love is just plain dull.
Then, they get married and move into passive-aggressive territory, which is simply annoying. By the two-hour mark, when they finally get into some meaty conflict, I was so tired of their incessant jabber, I found myself praying for a sensational homicide/suicide scenario that would spare me the inevitable “slice of life” break-up moments, sure to be as lacking in insight as the preceding scenes.
Flannel Pajamas is one of those movies that give art-house flicks a bad name. It has a pretentious, arbitrary title that in no way reflects the film’s content, a slow narrative with little conflict and no point, and loads of gratuitous, casual nudity (because it ain’t arty enough without pubic hair). It makes me want to rush out and watch the stupidest, most formulaic, high-concept, plot-driven popcorn-fest Hollywood has to offer, just so I can appreciate it on that one level that this waste of my time strives to take for granted. –Matthew Scott Hunter