Takashi Okamura
ENGEI GRAND SLAM
2015
1 Season • 2 Episodes
Overview
Comedy performance special program.
Cast
Reviews
✦ AI-generated review
The Infinite Scroll of Human Loneliness
There is a moment early in Jason Reitman’s *Men, Women & Children* (2014) where the camera drifts away from the manicured lawns of suburban Texas and towards the cold indifference of the cosmos. Narrated with crisp, detachment by Emma Thompson, we are reminded of the Voyager probe drifting into the void, carrying the Golden Record—a testament to humanity’s desire to be heard. It is a grand, cosmic metaphor that Reitman uses to frame a much smaller, sadder reality: a group of people sitting in the same room, bathed in the blue light of their screens, desperately failing to connect with one another.
Reitman, who built his career on the witty, humanist rhythms of *Juno* and *Up in the Air*, here abandons the warmth of dramedy for something far more clinical. The film functions less as a narrative and more as a sociological autopsy of the moment we surrendered our privacy to the algorithm. While critics at the time dismissed it as a reactionary piece of "techno-hysteria"—a *Reefer Madness* for the iPhone generation—viewing it a decade later reveals a film that is not angry at technology, but deeply terrified of the silence it leaves behind.
Visually, Reitman and cinematographer Eric Steelberg construct a world that is suffocatingly clean. The frames are composed with surgical precision, often isolating characters in the corners of wide shots, emphasizing the negative space around them. But the film’s most distinct aesthetic choice is the persistent digital overlay. Text messages, browser history, and social media feeds float above the characters’ heads like thought bubbles in a comic strip.
This technique, now commonplace, felt aggressive in 2014. It exteriorizes the internal monologue, but instead of revealing profound thoughts, we see the banality of our digital selves: the search for validation, the illicit thrill of anonymity, the dull throb of porn addiction. The screen becomes a second skin, a barrier that the characters cannot shed. Reitman forces us to read their lies in real-time, creating a dissonance between what is said aloud (often nothing) and what is typed (everything).
The emotional weight of the film rests surprisingly on the shoulders of Adam Sandler. Stripped of his usual comedic armor, Sandler plays Don Truby, a man hollowing out from the inside. His performance is one of quiet implosion; he is a ghost haunting his own marriage. His subplot—involving a sterile addiction to online escapism—mirrors that of his wife, played by the excellent Rosemarie DeWitt. They are two people searching for a spark in the pixelated dark because they have forgotten how to ignite it in the flesh.
However, the film stumbles when it allows its thesis to strangle its characters. Jennifer Garner’s character, a mother who monitors her daughter’s digital footprint with NSA-level paranoia, often veers into caricature. She represents the director’s own anxiety, a manifestation of the parental fear that the internet is a wolf at the door. Yet, even in her hysteria, there is a kernel of tragedy: she believes that if she can just control the data, she can protect the child. It is a futile, heartbreaking delusion.
Ultimately, *Men, Women & Children* is a film about the paradox of the modern condition: we have never been more connected, yet we have never felt more singular. The narrative threads do not tie up neatly; they fray, much like the relationships they depict. If the film fails to offer a solution, it is perhaps because there isn't one. Reitman leaves us with the Voyager, still drifting, a lonely metal box in the dark, much like the phones we clutch in our beds at night, waiting for a signal that someone, somewhere, knows we are here.
There is a moment early in Jason Reitman’s *Men, Women & Children* (2014) where the camera drifts away from the manicured lawns of suburban Texas and towards the cold indifference of the cosmos. Narrated with crisp, detachment by Emma Thompson, we are reminded of the Voyager probe drifting into the void, carrying the Golden Record—a testament to humanity’s desire to be heard. It is a grand, cosmic metaphor that Reitman uses to frame a much smaller, sadder reality: a group of people sitting in the same room, bathed in the blue light of their screens, desperately failing to connect with one another.
Reitman, who built his career on the witty, humanist rhythms of *Juno* and *Up in the Air*, here abandons the warmth of dramedy for something far more clinical. The film functions less as a narrative and more as a sociological autopsy of the moment we surrendered our privacy to the algorithm. While critics at the time dismissed it as a reactionary piece of "techno-hysteria"—a *Reefer Madness* for the iPhone generation—viewing it a decade later reveals a film that is not angry at technology, but deeply terrified of the silence it leaves behind.
Visually, Reitman and cinematographer Eric Steelberg construct a world that is suffocatingly clean. The frames are composed with surgical precision, often isolating characters in the corners of wide shots, emphasizing the negative space around them. But the film’s most distinct aesthetic choice is the persistent digital overlay. Text messages, browser history, and social media feeds float above the characters’ heads like thought bubbles in a comic strip.
This technique, now commonplace, felt aggressive in 2014. It exteriorizes the internal monologue, but instead of revealing profound thoughts, we see the banality of our digital selves: the search for validation, the illicit thrill of anonymity, the dull throb of porn addiction. The screen becomes a second skin, a barrier that the characters cannot shed. Reitman forces us to read their lies in real-time, creating a dissonance between what is said aloud (often nothing) and what is typed (everything).
The emotional weight of the film rests surprisingly on the shoulders of Adam Sandler. Stripped of his usual comedic armor, Sandler plays Don Truby, a man hollowing out from the inside. His performance is one of quiet implosion; he is a ghost haunting his own marriage. His subplot—involving a sterile addiction to online escapism—mirrors that of his wife, played by the excellent Rosemarie DeWitt. They are two people searching for a spark in the pixelated dark because they have forgotten how to ignite it in the flesh.
However, the film stumbles when it allows its thesis to strangle its characters. Jennifer Garner’s character, a mother who monitors her daughter’s digital footprint with NSA-level paranoia, often veers into caricature. She represents the director’s own anxiety, a manifestation of the parental fear that the internet is a wolf at the door. Yet, even in her hysteria, there is a kernel of tragedy: she believes that if she can just control the data, she can protect the child. It is a futile, heartbreaking delusion.
Ultimately, *Men, Women & Children* is a film about the paradox of the modern condition: we have never been more connected, yet we have never felt more singular. The narrative threads do not tie up neatly; they fray, much like the relationships they depict. If the film fails to offer a solution, it is perhaps because there isn't one. Reitman leaves us with the Voyager, still drifting, a lonely metal box in the dark, much like the phones we clutch in our beds at night, waiting for a signal that someone, somewhere, knows we are here.