While you'll salute Golden Exits for never going full-on Fatal Attraction, it ends up feeling cagey, trapped in the realm of the theoretical and too hip to raise its tensions above a simmer.
Golden Exits is too selective in its focus to give us a full picture of these lives, these relationships, and this general sense of dissatisfaction with it all.
Think early Whit Stillman without the archness, or Woody Allen without the schtick, self-seriousness or need for post-screening steel-wool shower, and you're almost there.
Golden Exits is a post love, post-passion and pro anti-depressant film. It is expressing its own curiosity at what it feels to be the inevitable conclusion of youth and living like there's no tomorrow.
These narcissists declaim their insecurities and grievances in the language of personal essays. What they're saying may be petty and small, but the rhetoric and imagery are transfixing.
Channeling Cassavetes ... Alex Ross Perry again adopts a handheld camerawork worthy of the auteur's looseness and unsuppressed delirium, wavering unevenly between the hopelessly unhappy characters as they try and fail to navigate their selfish emotions.
