THENEWYORKER, NOVEMBER 11, 2019 89
NEWYORKER.COM
Richard Brody blogs about movies.Your Grave.” Never before, though, have
I seen anything as openly destructive as
“Marriage Story,” the new film from
Noah Baumbach, which ought to come
with a warning from the M.P.A.A.:
“Contains scenes that may wreck your
relationship.”
Charlie (Adam Driver), a theatre di-
rector, lives in New York with his wife,
Nicole (Scarlett Johansson), an actress,
and their eight-year-old son, Henry
(Azhy Robertson). We start with two
declarations of love. Nicole tells us what
she loves about her husband, and he re-
turns the compliment. Each praises the
other’s warmth as a parent, plus a vari-
ety of respective quirks—Charlie’s tidi-
ness, or Nicole’s knack for opening jars.
Notice, by the way, that both parties are
described as “competitive.” For a sec-
ond, we glimpse what lurks ahead.
Baumbach is toying with us. Those
declarations, it transpires, are part of a
mediation session, which goes badly;
the marriage is melting. Nicole flies to
Los Angeles to film a pilot for a TV
show, taking Henry with her. They stay
with Nicole’s exuberant mother ( Julie
Hagerty). Also around is Nicole’s sister,
Cassie (Merritt Wever), who pulls off
the funniest and most flustered sequence
in the movie—serving Charlie with di-
vorce papers when he arrives. Not funny
at all, for him.
That blend of tones, with near-farce
and emotional brutality blitzed together,
is pure Baumbach, and he dishes it up
for two hours straight. Not that his com-
edy is black. Rather, the damage to hearts
and minds is somehow inflicted with a
terrible buoyancy of spirit, and at an
unbearable cost—literally so in the case
of Nora Fanshaw (Laura Dern), the
top-rate lawyer who represents Nicole
in the split. “Sorry I look so schleppy,”
she says, sashaying across her office in
lofty scarlet heels, curling up beside Ni-
cole, and offering tea and cookies (“I’ll
give you the recipe”). Dern is in devil-
ish form, right down to the little moue
of sympathy that she gives when Ni-
cole says, “I don’t want any money or
anything.” Yeah, sure.
In the opposite corner is Jay Marotta
(Ray Liotta), a bruiser in a suit the color
of rain clouds, whose basic retainer is
twenty-five thousand dollars. Initially,
Charlie goes for the cheaper option,
employing Bert Spitz (Alan Alda), who
operates out of a crummy joint with a
microwave and a cat, and who seems,
at least, to register the vandalizing of
human dignity on which his trade re-
lies. When the fight gets dirty, however,
Bert isn’t up to scratch. “I needed my
own asshole,” Charlie says, switching
his allegiance to Jay.
Something should be pointed out
here, something that you hardly realize
as you revel in the expertise of “Mar-
riage Story,” and in the gutsy panache
of the performers. It may be something
of which the movie is itself unconscious,
so steeped is its creator in the world
that he describes. This is a frighteningly
first-world piece of work. Viewers in
countries whose litigious instincts are
less barbaric may watch it in amaze-
ment, as if it were science fiction. We
laugh at Jay’s astronomical fee, but the
real joke is that Charlie pays it—that
he can afford to pay it—when it comes
to the crunch. How about the vast ma-
jority of husbands and wives, especially
wives, who cannot abide the misery of
their union but lack the funds to eithersolve or dissolve it? The crunch will slay
them. In court, it’s true, a judge refers
in passing to people with fewer resources
than Charlie and Nicole; but one line
barely leaves a dent.
Now and then, Baumbach tips his hat
to Bergman. “Scenes from a Marriage”
is the headline on a magazine article
about Charlie and Nicole, and she even
plays Electra onstage, as Liv Ullmann’s
character does in “Persona” (1966). To
be honest, though, we are leagues away
from Bergman, and “Marriage Story” be-
longs more to the long and hissy saga of
antagonism between Los Angeles and
New York. Nicole’s Off Broadway en-
deavors are dismissed in California as
“downtown shit,” and Charlie protests,
with ardor, that “we’re a New York fam-
ily, that’s just a fact.” Hence the devas-
tating shot of him alone on Halloween
in L.A., dressed as the Invisible Man,
with a bandaged head, and gazing for-
lornly at the TV. Late-capitalist anomie
in a nutshell.
And yet, to be fair, both players are
given their say, and their clamorous
voice, in equal measure. Johansson un-
furls a long and demanding soliloquy,
persuading us that Nicole’s role in Char-
lie’s existence had dwindled to “feed-
ing his aliveness.” Driver, inflating his
lungs, responds with a glowing rendi-
tion of “Being Alive,” from Stephen
Sondheim’s “Company,” which sends
you reeling and should—but does not—
bring the movie to a close. So, which
half of the couple is in the right? Nei-
ther of them. And both. And who is
more alive? It’s a tie.THE NEW YORKER IS A REGISTERED TRADEMARK OF ADVANCE MAGAZINE PUBLISHERS INC. COPYRIGHT ©2019 CONDÉ NAST. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
VOLUME XCV, NO. 35, November 11, 2019. THE NEW YORKER (ISSN 0028792X) is published weekly (except for four combined issues: February 18 & 25, June 10 & 17, July 8 & 15, and
August 5 & 12) by Condé Nast, a division of Advance Magazine Publishers Inc. PRINCIPAL OFFICE: Condé Nast, 1 World Trade Center, New York, NY 10007. Chris Mitchell, chief business
officer; James Guilfoyle, executive director of finance and business operations; Fabio B. Bertoni, general counsel; David E. Geithner, chief financial officer. Condé Nast Global: Roger Lynch, chief
executive officer; Wolfgang Blau, chief operating officer and president, international; Pamela Drucker Mann, global chief revenue officer and president, U.S. revenue; Anna Wintour, U.S. artistic
director and global content advisor; Samantha Morgan, chief of staff. Periodicals postage paid at New York, NY, and at additional mailing offices. Canadian Goods and Services Tax Registration
No. 123242885-RT0001.
POSTMASTER: SEND ADDRESS CHANGES TO THE NEW YORKER, P.O. Box 37684, Boone, IA 50037. FOR SUBSCRIPTIONS, ADDRESS CHANGES, ADJUSTMENTS, OR BACK ISSUE
INQUIRIES: Write to The New Yorker, P.O. Box 37684, Boone, IA 50037, call (800) 825-2510, or e-mail [email protected]. Give both new and old addresses as printed on most recent label. Subscribers:
If the Post Office alerts us that your magazine is undeliverable, we have no further obligation unless we receive a corrected address within one year. If during your subscription term or up to one year after the
magazine becomes undeliverable, you are dissatisfied with your subscription, you may receive a full refund on all unmailed issues. First copy of new subscription will be mailed within four weeks after receipt of
order. Address all editorial, business, and production correspondence to The New Yorker, 1 World Trade Center, New York, NY 10007. For advertising inquiries, call (212) 286-2827. For submission guidelines, visit
http://www.newyorker.com. For cover reprints, call (800) 897-8666, or e-mail [email protected]. For permissions and reprint requests, call (212) 630-5656, or e-mail [email protected]. No part of
this periodical may be reproduced without the consent of The New Yorker. The New Yorker’s name and logo, and the various titles and headings herein, are trademarks of Advance Magazine Publishers Inc. To
subscribe to other Condé Nast magazines, visit http://www.condenast.com. Occasionally, we make our subscriber list available to carefully screened companies that offer products and services that we believe would
interest our readers. If you do not want to receive these offers and/or information, advise us at P.O. Box 37684, Boone, IA 50037, or call (800) 825-2510.
THE NEW YORKER IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE RETURN OR LOSS OF, OR FOR DAMAGE OR ANY OTHER INJURY TO, UNSOLICITED MANUSCRIPTS,
UNSOLICITED ART WORK (INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, DRAWINGS, PHOTOGRAPHS, AND TRANSPARENCIES), OR ANY OTHER UNSOLICITED
MATERIALS. THOSE SUBMITTING MANUSCRIPTS, ART WORK, OR OTHER MATERIALS FOR CONSIDERATION SHOULD NOT SEND ORIGINALS, UNLESS
SPECIFICALLY REQUESTED TO DO SO BY THE NEW YORKER IN WRITING.