The Mend

I spent three months pestering poor unfortunates, asking if this was the best American debut since The Virgin Suicides: there must be something else, what is there, and so on (nobody disagreed with the Coppola diagnosis.) You know how it goes then—you start disentangling the Primers and Michael Claytons from the cobwebs of memory and kick yourself for playing the superlatives game. Then you take it easy on yourself, because what are we in this for if not for the New Short Sharp Shock, the askew notions, the labyrinths of framing and sound and human bangings-together that can only come from a unique decisionmaker, one who displays no incapability that can't be cured by having a little more time and cash on hand. And then you stop being silly and get back down to the pleasurable business of watching The Mend again.

Jim liked this review