A descent into madness

I wanted to love this movie. I did. Afterall, I have really enjoyed Sandler in his serious and/or quirky movies: Spanglish and The Wedding Singer, to name two. And I have loved Emily Watson’s acting for years. The first time I saw Breaking the Waves, I sat staring at the television, unable to get past her outstanding acting. Paul Thomas Anderson has directed two excellent movies: Magnolia and Boogie Nights, both of which I’d recommend to anyone.

So, for me, this movie had all the makings of a “punch me in the gut, blow reefer smoke in my face, and leave me spinning, asking for more” movie (yeah, that’s the kind of movies that I’m expecting out of this trio).

It didn’t happen.

Instead, I was asking, “Is there any more because this is really lame.”

I’ve read a dozen reviews that say this is a heartbreaking, powerful movie. I’m all for heartbreaking and powerful. This movie was not in those ranks.

It was dull.

There is so much running in this movie that it left me gasping for air, wondering if I could find an oxygen tank anywhere near. It is kinetic but in a twisty, gangly, “I haven’t figured out how to use these limbs I’ve got” kind of way.

Phillip Seymour Hoffman as the Mattress/Phone Sex king is superb. Watson is quirky and intense, as to be expected. Sandler is likeable but angry.

Punch Drunk Love is less about love and more about being punch drunk.