The Groomsmen

If the films of Nora Ephron and other relationship-oriented directors of her ilk constitute the so-called “chick flick” genre (in which emotionally expressive women psychoanalyze every facet of their love lives in between visits to the shoe store), then the films of Edward Burns could very well be considered “prick flicks”—movies in which emotionally stunted men pick fights with each other and their spouses in their efforts to avoid growing up. In The Groomsmen, Burns' latest depiction of men in the throes of emotional angst, five boyhood buddies are forced to examine their choices and the inevitability of life during events leading up to the wedding of their own Paulie (Burns, of course). And while Paulie is busy questioning whether or not he's marrying his pregnant fiancé (Brittany Murphy) for the right reasons, sad-sack brother Jimbo (Donal Logue) deals with his own stifling inadequacies as a husband; annoying Cousin Mike (Jay Mohr) frets over the icy reception he's getting from his ex-girlfriend (Jessica Capshaw); former party animal Dez (Matthew Lillard) embraces life as a husband and father of two; and T.C. (John Leguizamo) returns home after a five-year absence to mend fences and reveal his “big secret”—yep, he's gay. Before all is said and done, hurtful things will be said, broken hearts will be mended, and the guys will spend an awful lot of time talking, drinking, and hugging it out on their way to maturity and manhood. The movie fancies itself a modern day Big Chill, but at its heart, it's a much smaller and more intimate picture. Indeed, Burns' tendency to capture the natural flow of conversation and character interaction is at its best here. But it's also—like most of Burns' movies—a bit too precious and sentimental in its handling of “major life events.” For all its intent on depicting the erection-killing struggles of manhood, the movie fails to drum up much of anything resembling depth, as the obstacles presented are more like temporary inconveniences that are easily dispelled by having a beer or two with your old buddies. Come to think of it, that sounds an awful lot like a chick flick minus the shoe shopping. —Ken Knox

The Oh in Ohio

Parker Posey got game. If that wasn't evidenced in Party Girl, there's ample proof of her comic gifts in Billy Kent's frosh comedy The Oh in Ohio. That's “oh” as in orgasm, only Priscilla Chase (Posey) doesn't know it yet. She's content with her job luring business to Cleveland. Her husband Jack (Paul Rudd), a teacher and formidable cocksman, is despondent over his frigid wife's inability to come. To save her marriage, she enrolls in a masturbation class (taught by Liza Minnelli), but favors technology instead, and purchases a vibrator from a shop run by an unbilled Heather Graham. Once Priscilla experiences plastic bliss, she's hooked. Marriage ends; life begins. Posey's expert at playing the uptight, pre-orgasmic Priscilla, and the pansexual aftermath (she beds everyone, including Graham). In a classic scene involving a strategically placed vibrating pager and the frantic calls of her husband, she throws herself around in the throes of passion during a boardroom pitch meeting like a priapic marionette. The scene is foolish, but Posey wills it to life. (Earlier, after slipping the pager into her underwear, she calls herself.) Posey's not the whole show. Rudd illuminates the disconnect between sensitivity and aggression, especially when—after a night with a teenage girl—he boasts about his “magnificent cock” with bravado and a hint of relief. As Coach, Keith David steals his scenes with impish gleam and a dirty cackle. And Liza Minnelli's masturbation guru is scenery chewing at its finest. The Oh in Ohio could be better. It runs out of steam and the various plot elements never resonate. But a film about a woman discovering not just sex but joy is a wondrous thing. Posey keeps it floating. She's got a shimmer in her smile, a dirty thought in her mind that she's never going to share. You stick around on the off chance that she might just let you in on it. —Dan Loughry

Time to Leave

François Ozon's films produce a cool admiration. From naturalism (Under the Sea) to visual sophistication (8 Women), his work creates distance. This may be a “French thing”; their films move more naturally towards philosophy than drama. His stunning Time to Leave (Le Temps Qui Reste) has delicately meditative moments, yet it's hard to remain aloof. This second of a proposed trilogy about grief is a masterwork. Ozon may be a cool observer, but there's no detachment in the story of Romain (the extraordinary Melvin Poupaud), a gay photographer with terminal cancer. We get little of his pre-diagnosis life—he seems to have always been a prick—but we ride his volatile emotions to the end. He tells almost no one of his illness; pushes away his family, his lover; acts cruelly. Ozon neither glorifies nor excuses these actions. Yet the accretion of details as Romain hurtles towards our common end creates a tense empathy in the audience. We may disagree with Romain's behavior, but we understand his every exploit. Ozon's screenplay flows with incisive scenes; one of the best involves Romain's grandmother (Jeanne Moreau), herself close to death. Better still is the director's handling of sex scenes: a brief, violent one with his lover after he has been diagnosed, another with a woman and her husband who've asked him to help them have a child. Movie sex scenes are perfunctory; when one has heat and acuity, real eroticism, they're exhilarating. Ozon's are more—they're resonant: the threesome in particular, because we're profoundly aware of what's at stake for all the players. Slated for release in the middle of summer movie madness, Time to Leave is an anti-blockbuster. Who wants to see a film about the death of a gay hedonist when there are superheroes out to save the world? I suppose only those who'd like to understand what it is about that world that's worth saving. —DL