Commitment, its meaning and cost, is at the heart of John Curran's intelligent and subtle portrait of adultery and its aftermath in We Don't Live Here Anymore. It is also a film about love, middle-aged angst and identity, as two couples struggle with the impact of their infidelities on their sense of identity as well as their marriages.
The two couples - Jack and Terry Linden and Hank and Edith Evans - are close friends, too close in the case of Jack (Mark Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind Ruffalo) and Edith, 21 Grams' Naomi Watts. They are having an affair, of which Terry, played with understated power by Laura Dern, is increasingly suspicious, her depressed resignation symbolised by the state of her home.
Each adulterer has their reason. Edith's is repeated betrayal by her writer academic husband Hank, played by Peter Krause with the laid back self-obsession familiar to fans of Six Feet Under. Hank tomcats around, even trying it on with the wife of best friend Jack. Edith's affair is about revenge and proving that two can play at that game.
Jack's transgression is a rebellion against a seemingly inevitable slide into mundanity and middle-age. That both Ruffalo and Watts make their narcissistic characters sympathetic is a tribute to the subtlety of their performances. Their love is escapism: a reminder to Jack of a passion and impulsiveness now slipping into memory - evoked beautifully by snatched images of his early life with Terry.
Based on two short stories by Andre Dubus, We Don't Live Here Anymore provides a 360 degree view of adultery. It considers the nature of love and commitment - Jack guiltily recalls details of his and Edith's love making while out cycling with his two young children who innocently question the strange complications of adults. It draws the stark conclusion that contrary to Hollywood mythology love does not mean tranquillity, honesty or even happiness. It means stark choices, compromise and commitment.
The film brings to mind the suburban dystopias of Douglas Sirk, all be it less garishly shot. Its transition over a year recalls All That Heaven Allows, remade by Todd Haynes as Far From Heaven. This is not entirely a compliment. The relationships portrayed feel dated - no surprise considering Dubus' stories were written in the early 1970s.
All four characters struggle against '70s stereotype: Edith the perfect housewife rebels against Hank the lecherous lecturer; Terry emotionally implodes and drinks away her misery. Again and again I found myself wondering at the passivity of Terry, whose response to Jack's betrayal is not confrontation but swinging with Hank. The same is true of Edith, whose immaculate house perfectly encapsulates the emotional stagnation of her marriage. But Curran pulls it off, thanks to fine ensemble acting and Larry Gross' screenplay, which ultimately delivers a satisfying and thoroughly modern conclusion.
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