A story about changing seasons and changing attitudes, a newly accomplished writer faces mistakes and miseries affecting those around him, including his girlfriend, her sister, his idol, his idol’s daughter, and all the ex-girlfriends and enemies that lie in wait on the open streets of New York.
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ARP paints a razor sharp picture of a generation of entitled, bitter, insecure, arrogant assholes. Loved it because I've loved so many of them and feel inappropriately satisfied in seeing them lampooned.
Misanthropy and male dysfunction are always fascinating themes. However, there was nothing particularly groundbreaking in this comedy drama exploring the masculine psyche. Watchable, if formulaic, in an indie sense.
"Indie" cinema # 7: the chatter. Reiterating overworked themes of egocentrism and chauvinism, this film stretches up to the bearable the schematism that has characterized the recent books of Philip Roth and the independent cinema from New York, crystallized in "Husbands and Wifes" by Woody Allen: handy camera that pretends narrative freedom to a tiresome reiteration of an autophagic narration.
In an indie scene saturated with neurotic intellectuals and lost hipsters, ARP's films stand out in a way that, say, Noah Baumbach's don't. Partly this is because of his choice of music and film stock. But mostly it's because he cuts deeper. At his best (this isn't it), his movies are as savage and uncomfortable a view of love as Fassbinder's—a better comparison than Woody Allen. If only he could do more than cut.
Pareciera que Alex Ross Perry tiene un plan (no tan) secreto para derribar por completo las ideas que uno tiene del indie americano. Si en su anterior "The Color Wheel" destruía el concepto clave de la road movie melosa introduciendo sordidez, aquí toma el axioma del intelectual neoyorkino egoísta para realizar una especie de despojamiento del cine de Wes Anderson. No solo consigue eso, sino tambien un film brillante
As far as character studies focusing on detached intellectuals go, Listen Up Philip felt recycled and exhausting. Elizabeth Moss is great, if only because through her we bear witness to the happiness one feels when freed from the self-absorbed whimpering of the title character. A note of praise for the superb soundtrack and excellent use of close-up shots.
Perry gets away from the mumblecore influence and pisses on modern comedy-romance. Mocks Anderson, replicating the pedantic omniscient narrator; mocks Allen, dissecting the characters psychosis in a long procession of jarring, supposed edgy, humor. Is all of this voluntary? I don’t think so. He needs to re-establish a spontaneous approach to cynicism and human relation.