Trust the Man: Romantic comedy. Starring David Duchovny, Julianne
Moore, Billly Crudup, Maggie Gyllenhaal and Ellen Barkin. Directed by Bart
Freundlich. (R. 103
minutes. At Bay Area theaters.)
Director Bart Freundlich has gamely taken over the territory deserted at least
temporarily by Woody Allen. In “Trust the Man,” Freundlich’s superficially
entertaining romantic romp, the streets of New York exude urban sophistication.
Square mile for mile, they’re as enticing as they ever looked in “Annie Hall”
and “Manhattan.”
But “Trust the Man” is on shakier ground inside the offices of numerous
therapists where the main characters unload their relationship problems. It
isn’t just that Allen brought subtle humor to the process of baring one’s
psyche while these sessions are mostly silly. A bigger problem is that
psychotherapy itself seems so 20th century.
When Tom (David Duchovny), an adman who’s quit his job to stay home with
the kids and be supported by his actress-wife Rebecca (Julianne Moore), attends
group therapy for sex addicts, you think: Do people still do that? And when
Rebecca’s ne’er-do-well brother Toby (Billy Crudup) bemoans to his shrink that
what’s the point of anything when we’re all going to die anyway, it literally
stops the action. Manhattan may be available for lease, but Allen owns death
outright. Even the usually resourceful Crudup can’t make expressions of
existential angst sound anything other than imitative.
The movie’s symmetry strains credibility. Besides their in-law status, Tom
and Toby also happen to be best buddies, while Rebecca is chummy with her
brother’s long-suffering girlfriend Elaine (Maggie Gyllenhaal).
But the cast is fun to watch, especially Duchovny, whose comic timing
couldn’t be better. They’re all adept at repartee, a good thing considering how
these couples natter on. Moore, who is married to Freundlich and has worked
with him twice before, obviously gets his drift, and she brings genuine emotion
to Rebecca’s speech about the sanctity of love.
There are enough funny moments that you won’t be bored. My favorite is
when Tom brings a porno tape to bed and asks his wife to tell him everything
she sees while he closes his eyes and pleasures himself. She spends rather more
time describing the porn star’s wax job than he might desire.
True to the romantic comedy formula, conflict soon arises. On a blustery
winter night, Elaine and Toby go searching for their auto only to discover it’s
been towed. The weather cleverly mimics the chilliness between the two.
Frustrated at her boyfriend’s resistance to marrying and starting a family,
Elaine breaks up with him right on the spot where the car should be. The first
person she calls with the news is Rebecca, who soon after throws her husband
out of the house for having an affair, whereupon she and Elaine soak away their
sorrows during a pedicure.
In an apparent attempt to humanize these ultra sophisticates, Freundlich
brings them down a notch. Tom has gone from creating the “Got Milk” ad campaign
to organizing his days around picking his son up from school. Rebecca is
returning triumphant to the New York stage after becoming famous in movies. Yet
nobody pays any attention to her on her wanders around town. That they’re just
ordinary folks is reinforced by having them throw up and discuss bodily
functions, which turns out to be more than you care to know about them.
“Trust the Man” has a sketchy overall feel, as if Freundlich didn’t finish
thinking it through. For instance, Elaine is consumed with finishing her first
book, an illustrated children’s story. A hotshot publisher (Ellen Barkin, in a
funny turn) invites her to lunch ostensibly to discuss the project. Afterward,
she comes on to Elaine, then vanishes from the movie, along with any further
mention of a lesbian relationship or publication of her book.
The film also suffers from not knowing when to end. An obvious grand
finale set at Lincoln Center is followed by two more endings that feel tacked
on. Fortunately, neither takes place in a shrink’s office.
– Advisory: Sex scenes, sexual references and language.
E-mail Ruthe Stein at rstein@sfchronicle.com.


