**/****
starring Justin H. Min, Sherry Cola, Ally Maki, Timothy Simons
written by Adrian Tomine, based on his graphic novel
directed by Randall Park

by Walter Chaw I feel about Randall Park’s Shortcomings the same way I feel about Stephen Frears’s High Fidelity (2000), in that they’re both films I (would have) liked in my mid-twenties that I don’t like in my early-fifties, now that the ardour of my sexual jealousy has waned in proportion to my increased confidence in myself and my marriage. Similarly, I see the angst of its essentially unlikeable hero as distasteful rather than relatable and not meaningfully salved by trenchant cultural observations or incisive insights or wit, what little there is of it. It’s…a bit of a wallow in the company of a meanspirited, self-hating narcissist so self-destructive it’s easy to lose empathy for the three women in his life he takes for granted, abuses, and otherwise exploits. He’s a charisma vampire, sucking the energy out of every environment. He’s a black hole–and like most black holes, his primary function is to suck. I’m aware that Woody Allen made an entire career out of ethnically sucking, but I’d offer that at least Woody, in his prime, was funny. A creep, maybe, but a funny creep.

YOU HURT MY FEELINGS
**½/****
starring Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Tobias Menzies, Michaela Watkins, Jeannie Berlin
written and directed by Nicole Holofcener

NO HARD FEELINGS
***½/****
starring Jennifer Lawrence, Andrew Barth Feldman, Laura Benanti, Matthew Broderick
written by Gene Stupnitsky & John Phillips
directed by Gene Stupnitsky

by Walter Chaw Nicole Holofcener’s You Hurt My Feelings belongs, alongside stuff like Tamara Jenkins’s Private Life and Lynn Shelton’s Sword of Trust, to a very specific sub-genre of comedy. They’re talky, WASP-y, verging on the cusp of self-awareness at all times without ever quite slopping over from solipsistic, and clearly courting an educated, middle-to-upper-middle-class (white) audience. I like them, for the most part, with their hangdog protagonists, weary of idiots and drowning in debt to therapists and assorted medical specialists–none of whom seem capable of solving their own existential blues, much less their clients’. I know that emotional quagmire. I’ve made maps of it. This is the playland to which Zach Braff and Alison Brie bring their gnarled cinematic projects as well, slumming them up in quotidian drag so that their appeals to melancholy ring hollow, manipulative, and self-serving. They lack authenticity; their troubles aren’t lived-in but instead theoretical put-ons–the fake stories successful people tell at champagne brunches to appear afflicted by the same disappointments as you or me. You Hurt My Feelings doesn’t feel natural, either, I have to say, although that’s more to do with saturation than disingenuousness. I feel like I just saw Julia Louis-Dreyfus doing this in You People; I feel like indie comedies on indie budgets are all doing variations of the “talking in different found sets” thing. I feel like this is the third or fourth time this year I’ve been caught in a dense conversation with the same people complaining about the same problems in the same tone. It’s that phenomenon where you try to give your baby a novel name, and when they reach school-age, it turns out everyone in their class is named the same thing.