Trust The Man

September, as we know, is something of a dumping ground in terms of releases, and we’ve already suffered the slings and arrows brandished by Pulse and The Black Dahlia. Nothing, however, could prepare one for the shimmering beacon of awfulness that is Trust The Man. As useless as a volleyball court in a hospital for landmine victims, to gaze on it’s ineptitude is an act of masochism far greater than anything visited upon Wanda von Sacher-Masoch.
Characters are introduced with less subtlety than one would reasonably expect from a Nativity Play. “I know,” sighs David Duchovny as his actress wife (Moore) leaves for work, “it’s my new life as house husband.” They argue. Elsewhere, Billy Crudup and Maggie Gyllenhaal are arguing some more. And no wonder. If I am to understand Mr. Freudlich’s dim view of the human race correctly, men are slobs and porn addicts incapable of dropping their children to school without succumbing to the advances of some saucy divorcee or other. Women, meanwhile, are gibbering twits only interested in spouting mindless metaphors about relationships (“I’ve always thought of a relationship as a stick,” sobs Julianne) and prone to frigidity once they’ve got their fearsome claws into you. Men, evidently, are from Mars and women from TN J0924-2201 with the gaping black hole.
Lucky them. Minority groups are portrayed with even less dignity. Black men rap and make strange hand gestures. A European dinner guest dresses and sounds just like the Count from Sesame Street. (“Mwa-ha-ha-ha. Let me count things wrong with this picture. No, wait. I won’t live long enough.”)
We’re supposed to enjoy these stereotypes. We’re supposed to find it hilarious that David Duchovny buys shaved beaver mags while piggybacking his child. We’re supposed to hold our sides when characters randomly fall over. Instead, we wonder how this monstrosity got made. Oh wait. It isn’t because writer-director Bart Freundlich is married to one Julianne Moore?
No wonder she always looks so melancholic in Todd Haynes films.