Paul Marchbanks:
Really? Was this because you felt it didn't teach (or remind you of) anything worthwhile, or because it was just so sad and disturbing to watch?

TPM:
It was so disturbing that I can't even tell you why—other than the simple fact that sex/fidelity is so....

PM:
Yes?

TPM:
Devalued, demystified, or something.

PM:
Yeah, it does seem like all this stuff at the heart of really intimate relationshipse—love, sex, trust, truth—gets bandied about pretty casually in the movie.

TPM:
The characters do use those words a lot don't they? Do you think it's because they're aware that they are violating important boundaries (whether they are socially or morally imposed) signified by these words?

PM:
Makes sense. Like they know that on some fundamental level the words they’re using so flippantly represent culturally important stuff they want to evoke for purposes of manipulation or deception or seduction or whatever, like some muse they can call on briefly and then chuck back into the empyrean. They use the words so frequently that you can tell they don't believe, or at least take very seriously, much of what they’re saying. You know, lots of heavy words floating around without any real communication happening.

TPM:
You know, even trying to talk about this disturbs me because I have to dwell on the movie. Scenes like the crass chat room conversation so debase intimacy/sex. I know it happens, so it could be seen as a reflection of reality, but it pains me to watch it—it's so empty.

PM:
Which brings up a few other central questions: is this movie "real" and, if so, does it say something truthful about all relationships, or just the most dysfunctional ones?

TPM:
The simple answer to that question is that things would be better if people were truthful. Allowing the possibility of lies creates a situation in which an affair between Anna and Dan could happen—both have to lie to their partners for a year.

PM:
Yes! And isn't it weird that we don't see that year of lying, or any other stretches of time? The movie's like a truncated story with all the daily living left out: what the director (Mike Nichols) gives us is a series of climactic moments over three or so years where one of the many romantic relationships in the movie is beginning to pivot abruptly in a new direction. I think whether one believes the movie is true or false depends largely on what we ourselves bring to the movie—the personal experiences we draw on to fill in all the enormous blank places in the plot. . . . If you too have had a series of relationships full of broken trusts, sexual gymnastics, and hurtful verbal battles, than sure, you're likely to see the movie as an accurate snapshot of modern romance. You can imagine how they arrived at each in a series of emotional junctures because you know the feelings and conversations that have led you into crises similar to that on the screen.

TPM:
Right.

PM:
You know, for about the first half of the movie, I thought the male screenwriter and male director were providing a story more sympathetic to women, that it was guys who were getting indicted for all the crap in each of these failed relationships. Nichols allows the camera to rest on Anna and Alice in vulnerable, solitary moments, where we know they're feeling alone and confused. No such intimate, vulnerable moments with the men. Though by the end we've seen both Larry and Dan break into tears once each, those moments are surrounded by rage or downright meanness. While Anna's obviously deceitful too, she’s less brazen in her deceit or infidelity than the men. And Alice, the young stripper walking along in slo-mo during both the movie’s earliest and final shots, seems more a victim than the others. She’s more honest, speaks more wisdom, hurts more deeply, and shows more emotional extremes than the other three.

Also, her change of character frames the narrative. In the film’s opening scene, we see her walking down a London street happy and open to experience, willing to smile at a stranger and invite him into more than her bed. By the close, she has experimented with love and vulnerability only to see herself get hurt deeply. This time, as she again traipses down a busy metropolitan street, she has clearly closed herself off to such potential intimacies, resigning herself again to a life as objet d’art. The stares that follow her along this New York sidewalk react to, not a person, but a piece of meat. She’s aware of the men’s eyes, but this time does not return their gaze, adopting in daily life the same empty, one-way relational dynamic that governs her professional work. The character change is pretty tragic, and, given its place as bookend to the film, seems to be suggesting a truth about not only Alice but all of us.

TPM:
I have to disagree, at least with your first point above. I don't see Anna as a sympathetic character. She is at least as deceitful as Larry—after all she has a year-long affair with Dan, while Larry immediately confesses to her after sleeping with a prostitute. Additionally, because she lacks the fortitude to make the decision to stay with someone, she is in some ways the central character in this mess. This form of weakness does not evoke my compassion.

Alice, on the other hand, I do see as an unlikely sympathetic character. She is the most honest. The only time I question her honesty is when she “confesses” to having a tryst with Larry, probably to make it easier for Dan to leave.

In the end, I think my pained reaction comes from knowing that marriage takes work even without such infidelity. In our last glimpse at Anna and Larry, it looks like she might have learned a lesson about staying or deciding to stay, but I’m not sure. I can’t imagine trying to live with the uncertainty that hangs over these characters.