[yasr_overall_rating]
When Davis Green’s alluring young cousin Alexis shows up on his doorstep, he discovers a side of his family that had been kept secret his entire life. As the two get closer, they set out to uncover the shocking secret that tore their families apart.
Justin Lerner’s “The Automatic Hate” scoops in a wide variety of flavors – lofty family drama, incestuous romance, dark comedy, a study of obsession – into one nasty-tasting mix, failing on all accounts. Its shock value – the one thing it had going for it – is diminished by the vacuous, insipid filmmaking, wooden performances and a pacing so languid it would make anyone’s eyes wander towards their cousin’s cleavage (juuust kiddin’).
One lovely evening, as Davis Green’s (Joseph Cross) girlfriend Cassie (Deborah Ann Woll, of “True Blood” fame) breaks up with him over a traumatic event, Alexis (Michelle Williams-lookalike Adelaide Clemens, physical resemblance being their sole similarity) shows up, all hysterical, on his porch. She impulsively asks for a hug, then informs Davis that she’s his cousin. He doesn’t believe her: “We have the last name, but it’s pretty common. Please leave.” She does – but not before dropping off her card, with her number scribbled on it.
A troubled Davis finds a painting in the basement, depicting his father with another man, which leads him to visiting his dying grandfather who, upon gazing at the painting, chokes out, “We don’t talk about Joshua” – and proceeds to have a panic attack. An even more troubled Davis confronts his father Ronald (Richard Schiff), a professor at a local university, about the mysterious Joshua, but when daddy tells him to leave it alone, Davis embarks on a quest, tracking down Alexis in a tiny suburban town, filled with thrift stores, loose girls and nudist gardeners.
Joshua turns out to be Davis’s gun-toting uncle, played with manic, psychotic relish by Ricky Jay, who confronts Davis at the breakfast table: “You’re fucking my daughter, the least you can do is keep me company while I kill a pig.” The man quickly figures Davis out. “Did he send you here to spy on me?” he asks about his brother. You see, something happened between the brothers, and therein lies the central mystery of the film.
Only it’s really not that compelling, at least not enough to sustain interest for over 90 minutes, which here feel like 90 hours. Secrets lead to more secrets, family history unveils itself, an icky romance blossoms, Cassie comes back into Davis’s life after an expected death – until all gets revealed, if not necessarily resolved. Compelling stuff, I know. Get in line, ‘cos the tickets are sold out.
The film’s shaky, awkward dialogue rings false every time a character opens their mouth. Here are just some quotable bits: “So you have any brothers or sisters? No? That’s too bad”; “That guy in the bar? That’s not shitty luck, that’s shitty taste”; “I know you have to go now, but please promise me this is not the last time I see you”; “I love you… more than just family”; “Mind your business, you jealous c**t.” (Okay, that last one I actually kinda liked.)
The acting is all over the place. Joseph Cross is okay, if a bit blank, in the lead, but the secondary characters are mostly played amateurishly. Richard Schiff and Ricky Jay, who have worked with the Coen brothers and David Mamet, respectively, have seen better days, but both do what they can to hold our interest in their poorly-written scenes. The fluctuations in tone are as borderline-bipolar as Alexis, who cries at whim, slices off chunks of people’s beards with a serrated knife, and almost goes Alex Forrest on Davis’s ass towards the film’s end (for those of you unaware, that’s a “Fatal Attraction” reference).
Some particularly off-putting, sleep-inducing and tonally jarring scenes include a bar-fight that seems to have started from nowhere; a clichéd “bonding in the countryside” sequence; an extended viewing of a roll of old film discovered in an attic; an incestuous and dispassionate sex scene; a dinner sequence inexplicably scored to Jacques Brel’s French ballad “Quand On N’a Que L’amour” that results in a slapstick fight; and an ending that leaves a particularly sour taste in your mouth.
Oh, “The Automatic Hate,” how much do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways. You keep cutting away frustratingly, never letting scenes reach their culmination. You move at a snail’s pace. Your pseudo-ominous undertones just underline how straightforward, pretentious and predictable you are. You provide no fresh insight into family reconciliation, obsession or family ties; you lack subtlety, though you strive for it oh-so-hard.
At times, Lerner’s film, with its off-kilter (to say the least) love triangle and piling-on of stereotypes, approaches satire, or farce, but never quite reaches it, its incest vibe a particularly peculiar choice. I automatically hated this film from its first clichéd, poorly-written moment.
In select theaters March 18th
