Junebug vs Laurel Canyon

There’s a certain kind of small-town life depicted in movies that I find offensive. It’s hard to put a finger on, but I know it when I see it. The overly quirky characters, the ignorance about big-city goings-on, the backwards and/or backwoods dialects. I know Undertow is a well-made movie, but between the kid in the yard eating paint, the filthy house, and the fight over the coin collection, I felt at any moment one of the patients from Appalachian 911 might wander in.

And so, in the beginning of Junebug, I started to get that sinking feeling. It’s set in a very small town, and features some metro-sophisticates visiting the locals. There was just too much opportunity for yokels and aw-shucks and possum-eating or whatever. But Junebug is just sort of true, and sweet, and not self-aware of itself as a movie in that cynical way that so many movies are. For all the characters in Junebug know, they exist. And if some of them are a little too quirky, or maybe even ignorant of big-city goings-on, well then that’s just how they are.

Embeth Davitz is Madeline, who works in a Chicago art gallery, and wants to show the work of a small-town man named David Wark, who is talented but partially demented, and might not even understand her offers. Madeline decides she’ll have to travel to the town, which is conveniently the hometown of her husband, George (Allesandro Nivola).

George’s parents share a small home with their other son Johnny and his wife Ashley. Johnny is sullen, withdrawn, jealous of George, and questionably literate. Ashley is a bundle of energy and questions, a toddler trapped in a woman’s body. She’s also full-term pregnant. Ashley is fascinated by the visitors, especially Madeline, and wants to know all about her workout routine and what she thinks of things like malls and make-up. Ashley is so childlike and sincere that Madeline is fairly smitten with her as well, and soon they’re bonding in innocent slumber-party ways like fingernail-painting. George’s parents are harder to warm up to. His mother especially, played by Celia Weston, is deeply rooted into her routine, which does not include visitors, especially not visitors like a beloved son and the wife he still hasn’t introduced to his family. As the parents, Weston and Scott Wilson are perfect. If you don’t recognize the names, you will the faces; Weston and Wilson are journeyman character actors and never saw a small town parent they couldn’t play the hell out of.

Life goes on, for the most part, with George trying to be the man Madeline knows, while reintegrating himself back into his family in a way that makes them comfortable. Madeline doesn’t know him as a religious man, but when they attend the most authentic church pot-luck ever, and he’s asked to sing a song, he does so, beautifully. It was then that Junebug won me over. Allessandro Nivola is a talented actor, but the singing of that hymn at that moment is one of the more surprising acts of sincerity and warmth I’ve seen in a film in a long time. All those groups complaining that movies are only violent or deviant are also, I assume, the groups ignoring smaller independent features, otherwise you’d think they’d be championing Junebug as a marvel of small-town values and family bonding. But no. Seeing Junebug would mean going to the theater without the gallon bucket of popcorn and no arcade out front, and well that’s just so inconvenient.

The truest joy of Junebug comes from watching the performance of Amy Adams. As Ashley, she could have been obnoxious with her cluelessness and curiosities. But she’s real and funny, and when necessary, wise in unexpected ways. There’s a scene near the end between George and Ashley that is just right, all the more so because it’s a scene that logically should be happening between Ashley and practically any other member of her family.

Junebug was directed by Phillip Morrison, with an eye for what a real home might look like, and for what a family might sound like, and for how you might feel upon leaving. There’s no jokes about cell-phones not working down there, or about milking cows or getting stuck in the mud. It’s just real life that happens to happen somewhere else.

Laurel Canyon is also a movie observing a life different than most, and like Junebug, it dodges the clichés. Unfortunately, the world is the music business, and man, those clichés must have been what I liked about it in the first place. I hate when that happens.

Christian Bale and Kate Beckinsdale are Sam and Alex, respectively, a snobby, uptight couple of scholars who move, for a while, into his mother’s home. Mom, Jane, happens to be a producer of rock music, and embodies all the decadence that life offers. She’s got a great house with plenty of room, a huge pool, and an at-home studio, where she’s working on the latest by a band fronted by Ian, played by Allessandro Nivola (See how hard I work to connect these things? A little credit, please.) Of course Jane and Ian are sleeping together, and soon the new couple in the house will find themselves embroiled in a few surprising sexual combos of their own (Natasha McElhone is thrown into the mix, for those of you having trouble doing the couples-math in your heads).

Laurel Canyon is more obvious with the culture clash and generation gaps than Junebug, and suffers for it. And as with most movies involving fictional music, well, they just don’t give you much to work with (although, it bares repeating that Nivola is a great singer). And it’s kind of boring in parts. And it doesn’t really seem to be about anything.

So why watch it? Did I just include Laurel Canyon to illustrate how superior Junebug is? Of course not. Neither of us has that kind of time. I’m recommending Laurel Canyon because Jane is played by Frances McDormand, and for that reason alone, it is not to be missed.

It’s probably a lot to ask that you see a movie because of a solitary performance, but how many shitty movies have you seen simply because of the promise of special effects or nudity or Bruce Willis? I bet you saw Swordfish, didn’t you?

See, the deal is: Paris Hilton is not at her sexual peak. Not even close. You know who is? Frances McDormand. That’s right, kids, Marge Gunderson is raring to go. Man. Marge Gunderson will be so far from your mind when you see McDormand in Laurel Canyon. She’s like if there’s some parallel universe where Frances McDormand is their Sheryl Crow, and she can drink you under the table and run a soundboard and she might even flash you, just to be a smartass. She rules. She’s a less scary Linda Perry, or maybe an Aimee Mann with an audible speaking voice. Junebug’s Ashley would have so many questions for her.

Junebug: B+
Laurel Canyon: C