Sam Levinson knows the gift he has in his “Malcolm & Marie” stars, Zendaya in particular. Levinson’s highly stylized “Euphoria” is nothing if not a temple to stylistic excess, but Zendaya’s prodigious talent maintains its center; it is the oak truth of that program.
Here, she can’t do much to cut the studied glamor that Levinson projects in her role and that of co-star John David Washington (“BlacKkKlansman”), two highly competent actors relegated to speaking for the artist instead of being allowed to leave the art and its message work through them.
This may be because the message at the heart of “Malcolm & Marie” is easy, vain and undemanding, an attempt to sell a noisy and taciturn tantrum about artwork as a moving debate shot on a 35mm film.
Portraying the story in stunning black and white seduces you from the moment the credits roll, I admit, and cinematographer Marcell Rév (the man who gives “Euphoria” its beautifully spaced look) frames what is about to happen in one heady gulp look, showing a sweep of the Carmel California desert against the large glass panels of the modern architecture home that the couple calls home.
They are returning from the successful premiere of a film directed by Malcolm, from Washington, and from their self-aggrandizing speech and dance in the living room, much of which was filmed from outside, he knows he killed. From there, Washington launches a petty speech about the superficiality of the critics when reading reflections on his identity as a black man in a film that he conceived simply as a great story about an interesting character.
In the course of that speech, he names a list of great directors that he knows will be compared by the white critics in charge of reviewing the film, reserving a special vitriol concentrate for a critic of the LA Times. The mention of this critic comes up again and again as he complains about his hacking.
Meanwhile, Marie quietly cooks while making a pan of macaroni and cheese and, although she says she is hungry and tired, it is he who is devouring her. (Metaphor alert!) When he finally takes his head off the rectum and asks why she isn’t jumping with joy at him and for him, she points out that he forgot to thank her – an oversight that is particularly painful, considering that his cinematic coup arose from the life story of his co-optation of Marie.
Netflix wants to attract us by announcing this couple’s story as a romance, and the movie itself as a love letter to the filmmaker, and once you’ve seen enough of these cinematic epistles, you should recognize that designation as a warning.
In practice, “Malcolm & Marie” is none of those things, although its actors do a superior job of channeling what is openly a case of Levinson arguing with himself: Malcolm, the director in his early 30s, is the demonstration screaming and presumptuous of the artist’s ego and confidence in his vision, the arrogant shadow that every successful creator needs to nurture to move forward. Marie, his girlfriend addicted to recovery in her early 20s, is the injured side who demands to be seen and questions her originality, acting as a judge and candidate for jailer.
They are the personification of the artist’s internal struggle, proving that seeing these internal battles made flesh is not really as interesting as one might imagine.
The screenwriter and director made this film in the midst of a blockade and with a reduced team, which explains the location and the setting, even if it needs explanation.
Similar to “Euphoria”, the aesthetic quality of “Malcolm & Marie” is sublime. Washington and Zendaya are perfectly lit as they glide through the work of architectural porn, where they face off or, elegantly and furiously, pass through tangles of trees outside.
Rev strikes an attractive balance of wide atmospheric shots with firm grips on the actor’s faces. Together, the visuals enhance a pair of bloody, moving and totally committed performances that should catch our attention. His combined thunder is frustratingly drowned out by the overwhelming scarcity of true emotion, a necessary element abandoned in Levinson’s strenuous effort to make some kind of intellectual position in defense of the artist’s right to create separately from his identity.
Levinson’s other work, “Euphoria”, does the opposite – and in fact, the unique two-hour episodes exemplify how brilliant the filmmaker can be when he seeks beyond himself while capitalizing on authenticity informed by his lived experiences. He accomplishes this with the December episode “Rue” taking a step back and allowing Zendaya to expand his character’s extreme tiredness and sadness to fill the almost empty cafeteria where the hour’s action takes place.
“Rue” asks the viewer for just one hour and pulls out every last drop of feeling from the bottle. “Malcolm & Marie” wants you to watch two people fighting over problems that most people don’t care about 45 minutes after that.
I recognize that this is a blunt criticism of a film whose central figure makes doomed critics its hill to die for. But even without that obsessive side of Malcolm in a furious display, there is little else in the character that makes a person want to watch the full story, if he can survive a quarter of it.
However, let’s pretend, as Washington’s intensely solipsist character does, that as a critic and not a creator, I lack the technical vocabulary, the vision and the ability to separate the artist’s identity from the work he is in. Let’s take the view that is not the professional judge. A glass of the talented Pappy Van Winkle (because those who write, don’t write, can’t pay … please) in my glass as I strive to pontificate about the shortcomings of this film.
Instead, let’s look at it from the point of view of an ordinary Jane or Joe in search of a film that tells their souls about romance and art and, hopefully, transports them elsewhere. If that’s what you want, be warned that “Malcolm & Marie” will only make you feel trapped.
“Malcolm & Marie” is currently broadcasting on Netflix.