From Patrick Marber's stage play, CLOSER has the claustrophobic trapping of a dramatic adaptation, though, in this case, it feels appropriate. These are characters strangled and trapped by baffled, noxious ennui (if you could even call it ennui) and their faces are fixed in either perma-torture or glib toxicity. These are sadists and masochists in pure form, much like Neil LaBute's discontented, frequently funny characters (LaBute was, not surprisingly, greatly influenced by Nichols' CARNAL KNOWLEDGE)-- skilled liars who seek the truth, what happiness could ever come from such a fusion?

None.

Opening with an ominous bit of love at first sight, Londoner Dan (Jude Law) a struggling writer stuck penning obituary items, rescues a self-proclaimed waif, ex-stripper Alice, (Natalie Portman) from an accident, taking her to the hospital where their flirtation will no doubt lead to sex or, in the film's span of years, a live-in relationship. The next scene is much less romantic, but the clincher to an eventual foursome of misery. Dan, before rumpled and befuddled, is noticeably confident as he gets his picture taken by photographer Anna (Julia Roberts) a grim-faced woman he's attracted to. He's about to have his novel (all about Alice's life) published and he's feeling somewhat cocky about his potentially loftier position in the world. He hits on Anna with abandon, and the divorcee cannot resist. Though she steams over the fact he's attached to this lovely little creature, his muse. Rightfully, how do you trust a man like that?

But as Woody Allen said, "The heart wants what it wants" and, though shot down, Anna's desire never leaves her. Nevertheless, in a spiteful bit of web-play, Dan summons Anna a suitor via a sexually explicit IM session he is forging to a stranger. The stranger meets a perplexed Anna, but he turns out to be dermatologist Larry (Clive Owen) probably one of the best-looking persons you could dream to meet via a practical joke. And even though he's a whoremonger and sex message troller, she marries the guy.

And the complications continue. More time has passed. Dan still wants Anna (presumably because she spurned him), Anna takes Larry out of masochism we can only guess (the two have no chemistry) and Alice loves Dan, but isn't above spreading (and later, in a strip club, literally, spreading) her youthful wiles towards Larry. Though we're not sure what the characters' true motivations really are (and truth comes up frequently in this picture), they discuss them willingly, sometimes lying, sometimes with spiteful ferociousness. To see Julia Roberts discuss how Dan's cum tastes the same as Larry's "only sweeter" is something to behold and, in spite of what some critics say, not unnatural for Roberts. She's been looking unhappy in most of her films; it's nice to see that frown utilized with such empty dolefulness. Roberts either gets her character or simply looks the part; she's understated and cheerless.

The actors all do their best, clearly relishing their dialogue-heavy roles that move almost mathematically. Law is an overly sensitive narcissicist (maybe the worst kind of man alive) and Portman a too-world-weary stripper at such a young age. She's not simply tragic, and dumb, she's lost. And her body, a peach (especially in her stripping scene, which understandably should remained clothed, otherwise no viewer would pay attention to what she was saying), juxtaposed to all the jaundice, is an actual tool, rather than cheap titillation device.?

But this is a bloodless movie; even though I'm sure we are supposed to feel something for these characters. We don't. We're merely impressed or unmoved by their machinations. Especially Clive Owen's Larry who, in the end, mops the floor with not only the cast, but the characters themselves. Coming off first as something of a working-class boob, he reveals himself as a clever predator of shrewd brilliance. The actor is sleazy and commanding, and he stalks the film with such visceral power, you can't help but side with the guy. After all, these people are fooling themselves. Truth? Do they really want it? Love? Do they honestly know what it means? Happiness? Could they ever get over themselves to achieve it? No. And Larry cynically knows this. That is why he can skillfully carry the line (and tidy meaning for the film itself) with intense carnal knowledge: "The heart is a fist wrapped in blood!"

Read More Kim Morgan at her blog Sunset Gun .

E-MAIL THE AUTHOR | ARCHIVES