REVIEW – “Life Itself” Nearly Insults Life Experiences Down to a Common Flaw in its Own Storytelling

By Joe Hammerschmidt

It’s not entirely often that I find myself writing off a film in the first 30 seconds. When that happens, then it’s clear the filmmakers are eschewing the possibility of keeping me invested in their product, almost to the point where I nearly regret sitting in that room, to begin with. At 117 minutes, Dan Fogelman’s Life Itself carries a few good intentions but is so misguided in its own execution that it ponders whether there was just cause for its existence as a motion picture. The writer/director responsible for the feelsy TV megahit This is Us translates a lot of the same formula to an extensive feature film that overstays its welcome, ever disjointed, permanently soured by poor plot decisions, and a roundabout manner of presenting the pieces to which such a plot appears for an audience to cross-examine.

Blueprints to a stable sandcastle, they are not. Fogelman’s Love Actually-esque approach essentially combines two separate mini-movies together, chopping up the key piece, jumbling them, gluing them back together, and finally splitting the result into five incoherent chapters, all eliminating any manner of natural story flow, along with any hope for a smile. Launching off the ground with a self-aware Samuel L. Jackson to set up a confusing reprieve that establishes the tone of the first two chapters, nearly sounding like the director struggling to get the opening scene off the ground after multiple retakes, the first mini-movie is what best represents the film as a whole, or what it could’ve been. Had it stayed just at a fractured romantic tryst that transcends generations, much like This is Us, I’d have had a better opinion toward it. Leading the more superior segment is an off-the-charts Oscar Isaac portraying Will Dempsey, a frayed man bouncing back from a flawed marriage with college sweetheart Abby (Olivia Wilde). Her thesis on the value of an “unreliable narrator” plays as the moral compass guiding nearly every other character action throughout, almost extensively.

Their divorce and her accidental death by hit-and-run collision nearly drive Will to insanity, and court-ordered therapy with the brash Dr. Morris (Annette Bening), whom Will clearly misunderstands a lot of the time. Their daughter, Dylan (Olivia Cooke of Ready Player One fame) survives, yet consistently fights with the value of her own mortality as a struggling rock and roll singer just turning 21. Again, had they stayed just within those three, along with Will’s doting dad Irwin (Mandy Patinkin), that would’ve been plenty to focus on. Further complicating matters is the inclusion of a secondary story that only vaguely connects to movie no. 1 only to lead to a payoff in the epilogue that’s too little too late.

Just as matters in New York are turning dire, we instantly cut away to the Spanish countryside, and the plucky Rodrigo (portrayed as an adult by Alex Monner), a kid just eager to see the world and then some, until a fated Big Apple vacation traumatizes the kid’s worldview. It’s almost enough to ignite a breakup between parents Javier (Sergio Peris-Mencheta) and Isabel (Laia Costa), who winds up falling for his boss, the complex Mr. Saccione (Antonio Banderas). I won’t say specifically how the two families do connect at the end, but it’s seriously not anything that could’ve been addressed and emphasized in, say, the first five minutes.

I will not lie, for the robust cast involved, the way they were portrayed against such a disorganized, misconstrued course of action, is inexcusable, and was also rather a giant letdown, to say the least. Isaac would’ve had another fantastic character on his hands, one he could be proud of, if he’d carried more of a presence throughout the film. Here, he returns to the same level of career dread one would’ve spotted easily out of his part last year in Suburbicon. Wilde is seen as a quick-thinking menace with a bouquet of endless wit, and her chemistry with Isaac is undeniable. She’s almost seen as a slight buzzkill with how many times her demise is witnessed in Will’s flashbacks and by other means; it gets old, fast, and painfully. I’d have loved to see more of Dylan’s later story fleshed out, particularly with British-born Cooke in the part, who had certainly impressed me with a greater deal of emotional depth earlier in the year. Ditto for Patinkin, who needs to be in far more movies again, particularly with Homeland about to end its run. What is present already, would’ve been plenty substantial had a greater focus on in-order storytelling be taken.

An even larger sin in my mind had to be Banderas. As impactful as his character was in viewing, a pivotal voice that kept Rodrigo on a narrow path to his own self-fulfillment, he was still very wasted on. Like Isaac, his value relied so heavily on being a more central figure that could speak to the whole film, and even serve as the antithesis to the apparently unreliable narrator Fogelman insists to fixate on. That being said, the need to narrate every single bullet point through the character’s POV, it’s a rather unnecessary expense, and some may consider it an additional insult to viewers’ intelligence. Has that ever occurred with me before? Not to such an intentional degree, and never to a film that wasn’t marketed towards children.

I know Fogelman’s far better than what is an apparent misstep in his career; yet now I know why I’d never bothered with his current hit TV series. He’s clearly most comfortable with painfully schmaltzy tragedy porn, taking endearing concepts learned, then forgotten after the previous decade’s sci-fi treasure Lost, in how not to commit to proper storytelling. I can respect those choices in a creative type, but a satisfactory moviegoing experience that can remind a viewer why life is worth living? You’d best look further. There haven’t been too many occasions, where I honestly had said to myself upon leaving the theatre “one of the worst movies of the year” in 2018. Sadly, almost regrettably, Life Itself bears that distinction with a badge of vindictive shame. Fogelman and his cast, and even editor Julie Monroe (who previously collaborated with Fogelman on the musician comedy Danny Collins), they’re trying to pull it off. They have the goods to get the job done but waste their time, effort, and much of their budget on not really trying to commit. They’re all much better than just one trite piece of work in their bios; they’ll all bounce back when the sting wears off. What won’t recover is the time lost on behalf of the viewer; watch it if you must but try to wait for on-demand. And by all means, don’t be too sorrowful for the absence of Mandy Moore. (D+)

Life Itself opens in most area theaters this weekend; rated R for language including sexual references, some violent images, and brief drug use; 117 minutes.