“Show, don’t tell” is the hallmark of a great writer, especially in fiction.
Television has become unwatchable over the past decade, and it’s not just about woke clichés shoved awkwardly into conversations where they have no natural place, or acting out casting to fit Hollywood’s stereotypical racial and gender tenets, though they persist.
“The Family Affair” is surprisingly self-aware for a movie about Hollywood people written and produced by Hollywood people: Each character’s narcissism becomes a punchline at one point or another.
No, I’m referring to the fact that almost every show available to stream today contains completely pointless sex scenes. For example, “Outlander” was highly praised for its interesting storylines. Imagine my shock when the first season ended with a gay rape scene, complete with blood and full nudity.
Since when has everything become 1998 HBO, with the hopeless quality of being interestingly written?
The gratuitous sex scenes are a perfect example of telling rather than showing, despite showing everything. The insensitive and degrading sight of a booty bobbing up and down leaves very little room for our imagination, much less our humanity, but instead activates our most lizard-like impulses, narrowing and lowering our minds. This is the exact opposite of what good art is meant to do.
Porn kills romance. Contrary to expectations, some writers seem to be waking up to this fact. One recent release on Netflix surprised me with how sophisticated and adult the story is, yet so wholesomely told.
Directed by veteran director Richard LaGravenese, “The Family Affair” stars Zac Efron, 36, as Chris Cole, a vain, empty-headed action movie star, and Joey King as his longtime, troubled personal assistant, Zara, a Zoomer who hopes to make it in the film industry but is currently tied down to a busy, low-status role.
When Efron’s character visits her house to apologize for some misconduct, he finds her mother, Brooke (Nicole Kidman, 57), a writer and widow, there. The two hit it off in a warm and sincere way, not the typical cougar-prey encounter you might imagine.
Naturally, Zara is against the relationship, both because it is inherently awkward (at least to her) and because it could damage her career prospects, and the largely predictable turmoil, misunderstandings, fights, and reconciliations ensue.
The film is cute and doesn’t indulge in the explicit sexual imagery and messages I just mentioned, at least not to the extent that so many films take for granted these days.
When Brooke and Chris realize how well-matched they are and jump into bed, they are interrupted by Zara, and the “it was just sex” cliché is turned upside down by a clear budding affection for each other that turns out, against all odds, to be serious.
For a movie about Hollywood people written and produced by Hollywood people, it’s also surprisingly self-aware; its characters’ narcissism is at one point a punchline: After Cole makes a remark that slightly contradicts current gender orthodoxy, he tells Zara he worries he’ll be “cancelled” for it; Efron plays the scene there, candid, unassuming, and surprisingly funny.
Another pleasant surprise is how a light-hearted romantic comedy can handle grief with sensitivity and succinctness: Kidman’s character is widowed by a man who wants a divorce, while her daughter looks back and praises him. The fear, anguish and complex emotions this situation provokes are written and acted with impressive sensitivity.
If the only place you can get away to this year is on your couch, there’s no better place to do so than to lose yourself in the soothing summer breeze of this romantic comedy.
