Volume 5, Entry 3: Romantic Thriller

Revisiting a forgotten film with a twist

Imagine you’re working in a camera repair shop. You’ve got a digital camcorder in hand that refuses to play any sound. You switch the thing on to investigate and watch the silent video that reveals the defect.

In the video, the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen dances and laughs. Her piercing blue eyes leap off the tiny viewfinder. You stare, mesmerized, at this woman until you snap out of it and remember your job. You flip the camcorder out of playback mode so you can record fresh footage to test the audio.

The woman appears again, just not on film this time—she’s across the street walking, inadvertently in the frame. What do you do?

If you’re Josh Hartnett’s Matt in 2004’s Wicker Park, you drop the device, knock some customer out of the way, and follow the woman (Diane Kruger) through her day in Chicago. You follow her into her dance class and watch from the sidelines, and then you pretend to be an employee at your buddy’s shoe store so you can finally make your move.

Because the year was 2004 when the movie was released and I watched it in theaters, Kruger’s Lisa rewards Matt’s alarming behavior. The classical dancer toys with the aspiring photographer at first, fully aware of his pursuit, but then they hit it off and are soon laughing and lounging between sensual sessions in Matt’s apartment, smoothly en route to happily ever after.

Except they’re not. Years pass, and Matt is a charming ad executive engaged to his boss’s sister. They’re wining and dining a client from overseas when a woman who might be Lisa leaves the restaurant, sending Matt spiraling and back on the prowl for the woman he once loved.

What soured the budding romance? Was the mysterious fleeing woman actually Lisa? And how do local nurse Alex (Rose Byrne) and Matt’s wise-guy pal Luke (Matthew Lillard) factor into the equation?

In Wicker Park, director Paul McGuigan traces the chaos of this love quadrilateral across a two-year span in snowy Chicago. Lurching backward and forward again in time, McGuigan never settles into one moment as he twists time and place around these characters, embracing an impressionistic visual style that evokes the disorienting effect of infectious infatuation.

But all is not as it seems in this film full of missed connections, poor communication, and dubious decision-making. The film’s editor, Andrew Hulme, is a biased confidante, crafting scene after scene of half-truths and artificially narrowed focus. When the frame expands at the film’s midpoint, we race backward to discover there’s something more than fate and a lack of cellular phones keeping Matt and Lisa apart.

To the filmmakers’ credit, that dramatic shift is not without artistic merit. Wicker Park lacks rigorous construction, grounding its intricate plot too often in reality-bending coincidences or groan-inducing close calls, but there’s a vision: repeat viewings reveal a chess board featuring all its pieces. But McGuigan executes every bizarre half-legal zigzag of his knight with visual flourish and deep sincerity, his romantic thriller interrogating the messy pursuit of love and where precisely the line lies between affection and obsession.

Ultimately, the film submits, it’s all about perspective.

*****

I have this problem when it comes to watching movies.

No, I’m not talking about the falling asleep part. That is a problem—I missed an entire character’s introduction and death in American Fiction last week—but not this problem. This problem is that my spine melts into pudding when I engage with a movie. I morph into a compulsive consensus seeker, my sentiments rising or falling to meet others’ takes. I lack the conviction to claim “I loved it” without qualifying that statement 114 times.

Part of this draws from YouTube. Counting repeat viewings, I watched 302 movies in 2023 for a collected 522 hours…and my YouTube viewership still points and laughs at my movie numbers. The natures of those watchings are different—I’m far more engaged when a movie plays—but the two intersect regularly because of what I watch: I’m a fiend for video essays, but especially essays about film.

What could be better to accompany a meal than a forty-five-minute exploration of May December‘s genre or a tight 35 dissecting bad-faith criticisms of The Little Mermaid? Make that question rhetorical because, well, not much—I eat this stuff up. I love listening as creators I trust transform the finite canvas of a singular film into a springboard for discourse.

There’s a dark side, though: I often feel stupid watching these breakdowns. Rarely do I make any of the connections Patrick H. Willems or Broey Deschanel make; infrequently does my impression of a film align with Lindsay Ellis’ or In/Frame/Out’s. I think of myself as a thoughtful dude with intellectual inclination and a developed cinematic palate, but the Thomas Flights of the platform serve me humble pie with every post.

My sophistication and cultural awareness do not keep pace with those I’m subscribed to. It’s like I’m watching entirely different films, like I’m some deplorable consumer who misses nuance and misinterprets subtext. I am the mindless drone who took nothing from Miyazaki’s The Boy and the Heron, the troglodyte who thrilled over the Hunger Games prequel, and the mouth-breather who rated Bottoms as an off-putting tonal misfire. Put me on the firing squad: I don’t even hate the Disney live-action remakes, let alone recognize them as a harbinger of a creative apocalypse.

Objectively, I understand that I’m setting unrealistic expectations for myself. Film criticism is a job for many of my favorite YouTubers; whereas I sneak in movies to get away from mine, they can only afford their Factor meals and VPN subscriptions if their responses ignite interest. They spend hours crafting arguments and writing scripts; I stay awake for 90% of a film while munching on fruit snacks. They invest more than I do. And their takes aren’t always pure distillations of their feelings toward their subjects: Ellis herself regularly notes that “Thing bad” does better on YouTube than a more nuanced take would.

Still, I want to be at their level. I want to please the teacher; I strive to be their invisible parasocial star pupil who catches everything and sees the big picture in the motion picture just like they do. When I don’t, I feel an inkling of failure. I stare at a C- stamped on my forehead. Nothing I think about a movie is as thoroughly fleshed out as the pros, so I question the value of anything that does strike me as meaningful.

Which funnels neatly into the other problem. Equipped with stubborn self-doubt from the programming I watch, talking with others about movies sees me struggle as well. Whatever my immediate reaction to a film, when someone else unveils their take, I immediately begin hedging mine. My impression becomes a rolling weighted average, slowly lending heft to their assessment. There are times when I can feel myself being pulled away from my authentic response by a tractor beam, abducted by the aliens of another person’s feedback. I hesitate to stake any claims because I suspect I’ve probably missed something; even if I haven’t, I still want (desperately, hopelessly, endlessly) to be liked. Disagreement is dangerous to the ego and social circles.

Being susceptible to swaying makes communal movie-going dangerous. My penchant for visiting theaters alone originally solved a problem—no one wants to join me—but nowadays, it almost feels like the opposite: bringing a friend risks something I might love. There’s a reason I attended three screenings of Past Lives before extending an invitation to Jacqui—I needed that many to feel secure in my affection and critical assessment.

These days, I breathe a sigh of relief when a movie escapes acclaim. If almost nobody cares about it, no one’s going to make a video about it or ask me to see it. I can both sit for and with it freely.

You could say that’s sad, and maybe you’re right, but on that point, I disagree.

But that’s just my perspective.

*****

In all my talk about Wicker Park, you might have noticed that I avoided any overt statements of quality. Focusing on the ever-twisting story and intriguing creative choices, I avoided showing my hand and biasing you as to the film’s quality.

Having not watched Wicker Park since its opening weekend in 2004, I immediately chased my Saturday morning rewatch with a YouTube search for critical analysis. One guy with a tiny channel reviewed it, but otherwise, all I found were clips and scored footage. Nobody is talking about this romantic thriller these days.

But oh, did people talk about it twenty years ago.

Although most of the original reviews have vanished into the radically different online space of today, Rotten Tomatoes gifts choice lines from hundreds of critics’ takes. The film has a 27% critical consensus on the site, and while I’m aware of the metric’s limitations, I suspect this number aligns with the broad position taken by the film community toward McGuigan’s movie.

Just listen to some of these choice lines. Neil Minow called it a “dopey thriller” and Christy Lemire deemed it “maddening” while Anthony Lane of the New Yorker labeled it “hugely unconvincing”. None of these mince words.

But these were among the kinder rebukes. Many of those writing about Wicker Park opted to outright dunk on the movie. Here are a few of my favorites from Rotten Tomatoes:

• “A dull melodrama marked by plot coincidences of staggering stupidity.” - Matt Brunson

• “Oh dear readers run to another theater and don't look back...” - Emily Blunt

• “Five minutes into this eye-crossingly dull drama, you wonder not just what is going on, but why on earth you should care. (The short answer: You should not.)” - Phoebe Flowers

• “The whole incoherent mess is sort of like a downbeat Gap ad, only longer and a lot more boring.” - Connie Ogle

• “Like eating beans before the opera, you may suffer the embarrassment of unfortunate outbursts at inappropriate moments—in short, be prepared to laugh in all the wrong places.” - Rick Groen

It’s clear from these ecstatic eviscerations that many professionals disliked Wicker Park. There were others who responded to the film—Roger Ebert gave it three stars and wrote a jaunty review that begins with a quantum mechanics discussion—but most panned it unreservedly. Several called out the young cast or bemoaned its squandered and superior French film source material, but most often, they loathed its perplexing non-linearity.

And, just to be clear, that’s all very fair criticism. Although I had little trouble following the time-hopping story, I can concede that there are scenes of apparent flashbacks that don’t fully line up chronologically. Those departures don’t spoil the collective effect of McGuigan’s film, but as catalysts for frustration, well, I’m not going to argue.

With such potent critical consensus, then, I imagine you know where I stand on it. I’m constantly swayed into sharing others’ opinions, right? I must likewise loathe Wicker Park.

To be certain, the entire thing is silly. All those critics’ railing about infuriating miscommunications is valid. Cell phones in 2004 weren’t as ubiquitous as they are now, so I can forgive a lot, but the film never explains away other modes popular during the early 2000s. The script ages up elementary school rumor-milling, with characters asking other characters to pass along messages and letters rather than pick up phones, record on answering machines, or buy stamps. Nearly every event that transpires results from some close miss, inexplicable decision, or outlandish coincidence, which puts a ceiling on the film’s power.

Wicker Park hasn’t aged well either. I’m grateful the film uses no outright slurs, but it makes up for that with several other problematic elements. The early scene of Matt pursuing Lisa unsettles me; there’s nothing meet-cute about a guy stalking a woman through Chicago. Several times, Matt enters apartments or hotel rooms that aren’t his without permission, and he’s never meaningfully challenged on it; one time, he’s even inexplicably rewarded for it! If you want more minutiae: Luke’s store defines cultural appropriation, Kruger’s Lisa is a flat and generic love interest, the cast is so white that nine out of ten dentists recommend them as treatment for yellow teeth, and the attempts at PG-13 sensuality render those scenes toothless. Oh, and one more thing: the haircut they give Byrne to downplay her beauty is a greater tragedy than anything Shakespeare wrote, including the play bizarrely performed (in thick makeup that is never explained) within the movie. The film is messy, to be sure, often trying too hard to be slick and cryptic with effects that cement its place in time better than most of the movie scenes.

If you’ll forgive me for borrowing McGuigan’s structure, though, here’s a plot twist: I actually really like Wicker Park.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not high cinema. I won’t call it a hidden gem or a forgotten masterpiece, and I’m not going to wave off its many flaws. I go with the flow as Ebert did. Enough anticipation reaches me for there to be catharsis; remembering the vague twists from 2004 gave me the incentive to watch more closely now and observe the artful attention to detail invested in many scenes. More than that, I love Lillard, adore Byrne, and always respond to these not-quite-smart and not-quite-sexy thrillers. It’s a genre I enjoy. Especially for its time, it’s a good enough movie.

But, like the film, yet one more twist remains: I don’t just like Wicker Park. It’s actually a milestone movie in my life.

In September 2004, after weeks of conversation via AOL Instant Messenger, I invited Helen*, my friend’s sister, to go to the movies. She agreed, and we chose to watch Wicker Park while in line at the Century Theaters box office. This was my first—and still only—date at a movie theater.

I remember picking center seats in a half-full theater and talking through the previews about Death Cab for Cutie, her favorite band that I’d been working hard to like. We exchanged a few whispered questions during the film, no doubt trying to keep pace with the twists and turns, but I spent the most time trying to focus on Hartnett and Byrne, not the fact that Helen was inches away from me.

Maybe that’s part of the reason I so easily found the film’s wavelength: none of the shaky stuff got through to me, with my thoughts divided between romantic thriller and romantic interest. It didn’t matter that this was surely more a pity date or a friend date; Helen and I went to Wicker Park, buzzed about it all the way to Denny’s for dinner, and then talked about feelings until 1:00 am. It doesn’t matter that we never hung out again; she got back with her ex-boyfriend, and I was overbearing anyway. And it doesn’t matter where I’ve landed now about myself, either: I will always associate this messy movie with that night. There’s too much good in those memories not to have affection for it.

Watching in 2024, I tried to separate the film as art from the film as a time machine, but I couldn’t do it. Its flaws fully present, I found none fatal. In fact, I found myself warming to the movie, appreciating moments I remember leaning over during, and discovering why I love the song “Fix You” so much as the credits rolled. I hadn’t thought of Helen, who is now an orthodontist, for years, but as Hartnett stalked Kruger, I could hear her voice and see her cheeky smile at Cinemark.

One hundred thirty-five critics might, on the whole, pan Wicker Park, but I never will. There are no video essays or fellow viewers to test myself against, but I suspect my affection is immutable. Helen and I never grew closer than we were while watching the film, but transporting myself back to that night delivers no sadness. There’s something emboldening about revisiting a time when I yearned for that brand of companionship but still feeling secure now. That I find warm memories folded into a flawed movie only tallies additional points in the thriller’s favor.

A movie’s quality will always be subjective. That’s partly why I struggle assessing film: I’m forced to confront that somebody will vehemently disagree with me. That’s terrifying!

But Wicker Park is a persuasive reminder that it’s impossible to account for all points of view. There’s no dissuading me from fondness toward a date movie from twenty years ago, so why stress about my impressions clashing with yours? We’re different people. We don’t have to agree about any part of a film. I get it now.

Just like in Wicker Park, it’s all about your perspective.

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In a convenient coincidence, Wicker Park is free to watch on YouTube right now. If I’ve piqued your interest at all, it’s there for the taking. It’s a time capsule movie ripe for picking apart now; even my affection could not prevent me from doing so. I’m pretty sure it’s only special to me. But it is out there.

I finished reading a long book (Killing Commendatore by Haruki Murakami, which I enjoyed a lot) today. I only read five in 2023, but I’ve replaced Reddit with reading. This trade has served me so far. I’ve already pulled another off the shelf.

If you’re a writer looking for inspiration, I can’t recommend this piece about the parallels of skateboarding and writing penned by Michael Edward. I’ve already shared one quote with a class and have several others in screenshot form, waiting to be shared when the moment presents itself.