“It’s not a war:” the romantic alienations of Closer

A sleek, stylish, handsome time capsule of early-aughts depressive chic.

Closer is a fascinating microcosm of post-9/11 dysphoria, set primarily in London yet carrying with it a cosmopolitan moroseness that echoes the wretched memories of downtown New York while anticipating a similar emotional fallout from the subway bombings — which happened seven months after this movie’s release.

Its historical specificity is driven home not only via material matters like clothing and typeface, but also in attitudes to sex, gender and relationships. Adapted from a play by Patrick Marber with few changes to dialogue, the movie tracks four characters — a photographer (Julia Roberts), a writer (Jude Law), a stripper (Natalie Portman), and a doctor (Clive Owen) — who weave in and out of one another’s lives and bedrooms. 

Everyone is unhappy, everyone is gorgeous. Four bodies representing four different impulses in society: voyeurism and prostitution. Testimony and prescription. Closer revolves around these impulses and invites us to watch its ideas of men and women as they grapple with them.

As directed by Mike Nichols, this quartet of performances amounts to a vigorously watchable tableau of urbane suffering: Roberts is crushingly vulnerable as a woman who takes pictures of other people’s anguish; Law is, in turn, pretty or plain as a watery-eyed cad; Portman is in true command of her thankless Manic-Pixie-Dream-Girl-meets-Heart-of-Gold-Whore role; and Owen brings the ferocity of a lion with the discernment of a hawk as the dermatologist who harasses a woman he incorrectly believes to be his anonymous chat room date — only for her to end up marrying him anyway!

The production value is top-notch, the Damien Rice soundtrack is haunting. Closer is a movie to watch if you’re in the mood for smart cynicism and rarefied pain. 

It works as its own little world, and as an encapsulation of cultural melancholy. Perfect for a rainy day in early spring.