Paul Thomas Anderson’s anxious romance is funny, abrasive and unexpectedly touching, with Adam Sandler making Barry’s anger difficult to dismiss. Emily Watson makes the courtship convincing, though the writing gives her too little of her own.
Paul Thomas Anderson approaches romantic comedy through a man whose temper makes even affection a difficult proposition. Punch-Drunk Love is a rewarding, sometimes wearing film, with Adam Sandler making Barry Egan’s distress convincing even when the film around him grows fussy. We recommend it, with a reservation about how much of the romance the woman is expected to supply. Anderson writes and directs as though embarrassment, anger and tenderness might all arrive at once, and he makes their coexistence surprisingly funny.
Barry’s domineering sisters offer some explanation for his sudden rages, though Sandler does not make those rages easy to forgive. He plays the anger with enough force to make Barry uncomfortable company. We felt cornered by the family’s bullying, because Barry’s violent reactions make the prospect of relief feel frightening too. Philip Seymour Hoffman, as Dean Trumbell, brings an abrasive force to the antagonism. There is enough hostility here to make the prospect of a romance seem distinctly unpromising.
Emily Watson’s Lena Leonard makes the attraction credible without turning every exchange into an explanation of what she sees in him. Her warmth allows the film to become tender without suddenly pretending Barry has become easy to live with. We were touched by their affection, precisely because Sandler keeps the hostility so close to the surface. Watson gives Lena enough assurance to suggest she is making a choice, and the relationship becomes convincing through the pleasure these performers take in each other’s strangeness.
Robert Elswit’s saturated cinematography gives the romance an intensity that a more naturalistic look would struggle to match. The colour can be insistently pretty while Sandler is making us uncomfortable, and that friction works. William Arnold’s production design contributes to the heightened look, although the combined effect occasionally feels too carefully arranged around an already conspicuous misfit. We do not need quite so much encouragement to notice that Barry experiences his surroundings differently; Sandler has established it without assistance.
Jon Brion’s percussive score is more successful at making that discomfort physical. Its restless insistence gives scenes a nervous energy that can be funny and exhausting within the same passage. Leslie Jones’s editing sustains the uneasy rhythm, allowing changes of mood to arrive before we have quite adjusted to the previous one. Across 96 minutes, that approach keeps the romance precarious and makes its moments of affection particularly welcome. It is not a rhythm everyone will enjoy.
The substantial weakness is Anderson’s writing for Lena, which leaves Watson to supply qualities the script has not developed. Barry’s unhappiness receives close attention; her interest in him is asked to explain rather a lot about her. The film gives us ample reason to understand why he needs affection, and much less reason to understand what she needs. Her performance does enough to keep the relationship convincing, but the writing narrows a romance that might have been richer.
Romantic comedy often asks us to find bad behaviour endearing, and Anderson is usefully reluctant to make Barry’s anger pleasant. He also permits a giddiness that would disappear if the film spent every scene explaining its troubled hero. The comedy benefits from that freedom, even when the noise and deliberate oddness become a little much. Watch it for Sandler and Watson, and expect the music to make sitting quietly beside them unusually difficult.
