A Review of the Film "Garden State"

By Steven Rybicki
Much has been made of Zach Braff s egotism. He's written and directed a movie where he's the sympa­thetic star who gets the girl (in this case that girl hap­pens to be Natalie Portman). Sure, my experience tells me that this is not the way "it" works. But this doesn't necessarily demand that the film is fatally flawed. Instead, the driving force in the film is Braffs focus on the feeling of being lost, confused, and stuck. And the method he chooses to cast his film is a fairy tale of sorts. In fact, this method may be the best way Braff is capable of expressing his thesis, so there's really no shame in thinking, "while I'm at it, why not write for and attempt to cast Natalie Portman?"
If criticism of Garden State fixates upon an unfit male finding a deep, intimate, meaningful rela­tionship with a woman who is too beautiful for him, then it would be best to expand those harsh words to a total broadside assault on the film. Let's not labor under any false delusions: this film's focus and execu­tion is dripping of American bourgeoisie conceit. It points the cinematic gaze towards pampered, pathetic white boys. They are "condemned" to a life of pills and psychologists, and the time to be mired, in various degrees, in epistemological and metaphysical crises. Not to mention: what are they going to do for a career... especially when they aspire to proper employment in a post-industnal society? What about happiness? And what about girls1 The questions con­tinue and, of course, overlap.
But I can't brash off :his film because my mind identifies and my body literally aches with congruent concerns of Andrew Large in an. Garden State's protag­onist. Therefore, I will ihaif-;okingly) posit: this will be a thoroughly historicistic reflection upon, and rec­ommendation of. Zach Braffs Garden State. Now might be the only time and place where it resounds as a significant statement from its creator to me. I recog­nize the film has problems. The direction and editing
are, at points, sloppy. This dovetails with the occasion­ally disjointed and mediocre plotting of the script. But two aspects of Braff s writing elevate the film: sections of his dialogue between Andrew Largeman and Natalie Portman's character, Sam, and the beautiful way the a few key sequences and visual flourishes dur­ing his series of vignettes reflect and refine the mental state and psychological longings of the protagonist.
An endearing sequence, staged in a swimming pool, contains one of Garden State's best proposals. The scene is set with a line of twentysomethings jump­ing into the glowing, chlorinated green of a swimming pool leaving Andrew standing alone, isolated on the far left of the frame. Subsequently, from overhead Andrew is seen with Sam in the far left of the frame and in the extreme of one end of the pool. The focus of the sequence becomes a conversation on "home" and its relation to people (parents) and things (houses). He mournfully concludes: "Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place."
But where Braff denies a comfortable and con­crete conception of "home," he quickly asserts human interaction must be the truly valuable axiom of action. So emphatic is his conviction of this, it's easy to see that the entire film is his offering and example of the importance of just being in the company of others. The theme of the thrill of human contact underlies the film and intersects with another facet of Garden State: detachment. Braffs most visually complex images, including a boozy, X filled homecoming, the afore­mentioned swimming pool, a hamster funeral, and a wonderfully expressive time elapse shot of an expres­sive Portman in front of a flickering fire, are deliber­ately juxtaposed to highlight the joy of contact between the characters, and yet their fundamental detachment from one another.
A first verbal interchange of note from Portman's Sam is her description of the indie band, The Shins. "It will change your life" she reports in a beautifully delivered line that has an ironic and blase tone that captures both her adoration of that darling band and a conviction that as good as records get, peo­ple provide a superior, more stimulating thrill. Yet, what is vital to keep in mind is the action Sam takes: The Shins are great because Sam wants to share their music with Andrew.
The climax of the film retraces the themes of home, interaction, affection, and feeling with a tender sequence that situates Andrew in Sam's arms. Conveniently, he seems to be literally surrounded by almost every external artifact that has contributed to his psychic oppression. Andrew breaks down: "Safe... when I'm with you I feel safe... like I'm home." Due to his awareness of the irony of the proposition, Braff is obliged to contextualize the proposition a "safe" "home," with pain: "this hurts" Andrew whimpers.
Sam responds: "I know it hurts... and it's pretty much all we got." The scene fades to a pan of Sam and Andrew asleep with each other while the withered tones of the Florida band Iron & Wine cover "Such Great Heights" (and yes we get the joke/nod to Ben Gibbard). But it's alright: the correspondence of those images and that music works. And the hipster senti­mentality of Braff s script has been preserved and an ending is in sight for this tragically hip fairy tale.
Again, it's fair to see the film, including that scene, as being implausible to the point of laughable, maudlin excess. But right now the film makes sense to me. I don't believe Braff is condescending with the narrative absurdity in his yam. But I'm definitely not convinced that his vision will stand any given period of time. Then again, I certainly don't want to be this confused about the future for that long of a time, either. Regardless, Garden State, is a consoling experience, for now.