Down To You * * (out of * * * *) Film Criticism By Zachary McGhee
Rated PG-13 (brief graphic language, other mild language, sensuality and related themes), 100 minutes, 2000. Miramax. Freddie Prinze, Jr, Julia Stiles, Henry Winkler, Shawn Hatosy, Zak Orth, Selma Blair, Ashton Kutcher, Rosario Dawson. Directed by Kris Isacsson.
When he defined morality, Hemmingway said that if you felt good after doing something it was fundamentally good, and if you felt badly it was fundamentally evil. I felt bad after watching Down To You. Hyperbole, you say? Yes, of course, I retort, but you’ll thank me in the end.
Maybe it was that neither of these characters are especially good people that we can even begin to care about. Maybe it was that they did and said wretched things to one another throughout the course of what some critics are calling The Story Of Us-lite. Maybe it’s that the screenplay isn’t the least bit involving, or original, and instead volunteers tired teen and college clichés. But, even after all that, I’m pretty sure it was the ending.
Down To You begins and develops in what is becoming a much too common way to tie up your narrative. It must have been in the latest edition of "How to Write The Great American Screenplay," or something. The characters speak directly to camera (which, you would think, would be weird to the people around them; see Wayne’s World for the real way to do this) and relate their trite and exhausted tale of romance passed.
Al, played by the incomprehensibly effete Freddie Prinze, Jr., begins weaving the story of how they met, his "first love," he says. Cut to a bar a couple of years back, Al’s in his sophomore year of college, sitting in a booth at a bar ("We thought it was cool ‘cause they didn’t check I.D.") discussing with a friend the latter’s venture into the porn industry, and another friend who wants to get into the business through this guy, Monk’s, connections. (A timeline in the forthcoming relationship is basically provided by how far up the ladder Monk travels in the industry: first low-key star, then director, then withdrawalâ€'like Boogie Nights for the kiddies.)
Anyway, somehow Al catches a glance at Imogen (Julia Stiles, not as clever or quick witted here as her heroine of last year’s 10 Things I Hate About You, although that film earned the same two-and-a-half stars), a freshman who spends a lot of time drinking and doing drugs (not always on screen), but is somehow constantly sober enough to pop out the occasional one-liner. They start talkingâ€'something about Patsy Clineâ€'and eventually begin dating. There are a few useless subplots, like constant flirtation between Monk’s co-stars and Al, problems between Al and his dad (Henry Winkler), etc., etc. But mainly the movie centers on the budding relationship of Prinze, Jr. and Stiles.
Things start off well, but then it’s like a three-year-old with access to a light switch. On and off. On and off. The bickering never ceases, and neither does the making up, which, according to Al, is when "it feels best" to be with her. So we get into this constant cycle, allowing them to have their odd little "relationship high," cursing and blaming one another just to get back to making up. Then it starts to fall apart, and after seeing these people fight for 90 minutes we finally get to see what we know would, at long last, make them just shut up so we can go home. And then, ugh, the Hollywood cliché machine kicks into gear, tosses us our happy ending, and says "everything will be all right now, you can go".
Watching Down To You, which is the directorial debut of Kris Isacsson, I came to realize what Hollywood is missing out on. When I saw the ultimately disappointing 10 Things I Hate About You, I celebrated the performance of Larry Miller, who played the concerned father of two teenage girls. Here, I noted the dazzling performance of Henry Winkler. And while Winkler’s role is not as well written as Miller’s, it came to me. What we need is not a movie about teenagers starring teenagers, but rather a movie about teenagers starring parents, because, apparently, they lead lives which are much more interesting and creative than their children. At least then, rather than lamenting over the silly college affairs of immature losers we could go behind-the-scenes of a t.v. show Winkler pitches as an on-air chef: "Cooks." Like "Cops", but not.
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