They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

So begins a celebrated poem by Philip Larkin, and it perfectly describes the tragicomic trajectory of The Squid and the Whale, the latest film by writer/director Noah Baumbach. Others have tried to get the poem’s simple point across, but few with such masterfully compelling, humorous, identifiable and poignant precision.

The film tells the tale, drawn from Baumbach’s experiences, of a dysfunctional family of intellectual writer parents whose marriage is coming apart, and their two sons Frank and Walt, aged 12 and 16. Set in Park Slope, Brooklyn in 1986, the film is like any excellent literary work: reaching the universal through intense focus on detail.

Above all, this is a tale of disillusionment, or of coming to see with some clarity that our parents are not perfect. One has the sense that these four family members are blind to their foibles, blind to the deeper reservoirs of love they have for one another, and in the children’s case, blind to the shortcomings of their parents.

Bernard, the hoary-bearded father (played brilliantly by Jeff Daniels at his best) is a has-been novelist consigned to a life of rejections, teaching college, bitterness, poorly attended readings, and jealousy in the face of his estranged wife’s budding literary career. A man of boundless narcissism and self-pity who can say offhandedly that Franz Kafka is his predecessor, he divides the world into two camps: true intellectuals and philistines, the latter camp a decidedly contemptuous bunch. Anybody who doesn’t love him, respect his literary talent, or who competes with him for his wife’s affections: they are all philistines. In subtle scenes in the family’s home, we see how Walt worships his father as all but infallible: he repeats Bernard’s pretentious take on virtually everything, looking more foolish in the bargain for stealing a mediocre identity. Worse yet, he takes on his father’s world-weary view of women, and thus before he has ever had sex already agrees on the usefulness of playing the field, waiting for something better to come along. A teenager of transparently unrealized identity, he claims a Pink Floyd song as his own in the school talent show, spurred on by his desire to impress his father.

While part of the point of the film is that the children realize the shortcomings of their parents, we come away respecting all of them, knowing that no one is immune to similar stretches of vanity, or just being outright wrong on fundamental issues or approaches to things and people.

Despite being about divorce, the film is surprisingly un-sappy; far from resorting to heart-tugging scenes, it almost errs on the other end, staging the scene in which the parents announce the bad news with a weirdly comic undertone. This was one rare moment I felt the script rang untrue in an otherwise uncompromising and at times lacerating exposé of angst, whether at age 12 or 16 or in midlife.

The music was a bit hit and miss, most of it successful with period-song ironic counterpoint to the action, but some sounding like (if not exactly) the soundtrack to Risky Business. Billy Baldwin does an admirable job as the goonish tennis pro Ivan, an idol to the younger brother who may be fulfilling his father’s worst nightmare by becoming a “philistine” in the mold of Ivan. As Frank, Owne Kline digs deep and delivers a touching performance of a rather troubled but sweet kid just discovering the joys of masturbation. And Eisenberg is quite compelling as the older brother who will defend his father to any and all detractors until the cracks around the paternal façade become too gaping to ignore. And Laura Linney is perfect as the somewhat hapless and lost mother, Joan, losing grip on her children (and certainly her husband) while her own literary star rises.

The four main characters are so rich and believable, I feel I know them well after a brief (88 minutes) meeting. There is a shock of recognition, painful and whimsical, in store for anyone who has been an adolescent (which is to say everyone). The level of depth Baumbach reaches in his character development makes him a Bergman in Brooklyn, and that is saying a lot.


* * * * * * *

The film is rated R for good reason. Language is rather extreme, at points, and the situations are not kiddy-friendly. A parent would think twice before exposing a younger child to the dysfunctional family organism that is probably not unlike their own. Let the kids figure it out for themselves, in college or perhaps therapy…


Recommended: Yes