Pity Living Out Loud's Pat Francato: his daughter has movie cancer. Andie MacDowell contracted it in the recent Unstrung Heroes (also penned by Richard LaGravanese--coincidentally?), and the disease hath struck again. There the beautiful Francato girl lay on a gurney, without an intravenous or any sort of standard medical apparatus nearby, her hair immaculate and make-up (make-up?!) unsmudged. She looks like she's decompressing after a difficult pedicure. A few scenes later, we find out that she has died. Of what, boredom? Said hospital scene with the Francato girl summarizes Living Out Loud--another in a dubious line of superficial Girl Power movies--better than I ever could; this is a film that paints an immaculate glaze over troubling facts of life.

Living Out Loud began production as "The Kiss" (it would have shared the designation with a Chekhov story), a title dropped because of its more modern associations with a best-selling, non-fictional account of an incestuous father-daughter relationship. The film stars a blonde Holly Hunter as home-nurse Judith, recent dumpee of husband Dr. Nelson (the always charismatic Martin Donovan). Judith fantasizes some of the time about suicide, and about meeting her idol, torch singer Liz Bailey (Queen Latifah), and these daydream sequences are woven into the fabric of Living Out Loud without warning; we're often unsure as to whether a scene is unfolding inside or outside of Judith's head. (Dumbed-down echoes of Le Charme Discret de la Bourgeoisie, Luis Buñuel's anti-narrative masterwork.)

Danny DeVito plays the aforementioned Pat, a down-on-his luck elevator operator in Judith's building; they unite over their losses. He takes a quick romantic shine to her, but she's holding out for the return of the mysterious stranger (Elias Koteas) with whom she accidentally (yes, accidentally) made out in the alleyway of her favourite nightclub. Actually, Judith has her sights set on any man the exact physical opposite of chubby, stubby Pat, though the filmmakers gloss over her shallowness to a self-deluding degree. I comprehend LaGravanese's desire to grant Judith emotional independence after years of turning to a husband for stability. Unfortunately, he chooses to teach Judith that being alone is acceptable through warm and fuzzy Pat, who's hardly deserving of the casual mistreatment he receives throughout.

LaGravanese has an ear for dialogue, especially that which will be spoken by female characters: the only man in his household while growing up, his women creations express themselves with startling authenticity. But this movie, his directorial debut, has all the trappings of a first-timer's feature: no sense of economy (otherwise known as I'm-in-love-with-every-frame Syndrome--Pat's daughter's funereal pose is covered from so many angles that the alternating compositions disrupts the sombre mood), no sense of pace (though never boring, the middle section is lumpy), and no idea what to do with anybody but his protagonists, disregarding the fact that Latifah gets to belt out a few tunes.

DeVito gives it his all--this is the warmest performance of his career, which renders Judith all the more a cold fish for shunning his awkward advances. We are supposed to see a little bit of ourselves in Judith, but I lost my affection for her once she hired a studly masseur before DeVito's despondent eyes. Reactions to Hunter's character will surely vary from person to person (after all, selfishness is our nature, and to some degree, Judith is a refreshingly flawed human character), but her actions, compounded by a head-scratching "Mary Tyler Moore"-esque epilogue, prevent me from recommending the film. LaGravanese wrote himself into a corner, granted--Living Out Loud could have ended a thousand different ways. Trouble is, I'm not sure that any one of them would bring the picture to a satisfactory close.

Living Out Loud has been granted deluxe treatment on DVD by New Line, though they chose not to attach their Platinum Series banner. One of the film's assets is DP John Bailey's use of widescreen (recalling an era when everything from light comedies to melodramas were shot in scope), which has been well preserved here in a 2.35:1 widescreen presentation enhanced for 16x9 displays. This isn't among New Line's best transfers--the image swims in murk at times (the interiors of Judith's apartment are lacking in shadow detail). The Dolby 5.1 soundmix greatly assists George Fenton's bouncy score--I found myself turning down the LFE channel during Latifah's sultry numbers (an overabundance of bass muddies "Lush Life," in particular). The split surrounds carry mostly music and cabaret ambience.

The DVD includes a commentary by LaGravanese. He is very candid about the difficult time he had of giving the film a visual texture since he is a writer, not a director, at heart. I found myself listening to him intently. As a screenwriter, he has done some excellent work--his adaptation of The Horse Whisperer was solid. He also explains that, contrary to what many believed, Chekov's stories did not inspire Living Out Loud; he discovered Misery and The Kiss after he had committed to a project with the theme of a lonely woman. (You can even listen to these Chekov stories read aloud on another track by ex-"New Yorker" scribe Stephen Schiff and Claudia Shear, respectively.) LaGravanese proves himself an intelligent speaker and profound thinker (I am still considering his explanation of Jung's Pluto Complex); he admits to incorporating too many ideas and themes into his originals (such as The Fisher King and Living Out Loud), which may explain why the biggest issues his movie tackles are consequently trivialized.

Five deleted scenes and a trailer round out the package. Three were wisely omitted, but I found the "runaway horse" sequence strangely endearing. (A still from this segment is used in the main-menu screen.) The fifth omission features Latifah singing "Lush Life" in its entirety, sans the intrusion of a lip-synching Holly Hunter. These sequences are of second or third generation VHS quality and feature burned-in time code.-Bill Chambers