Moviegoers familiar with director Neil LaBute’s past work will correctly perceive “The Shape of Things” as a riff on the subjects addressed in his previous films. LaBute puts a fresh spin on the age-old human themes of calculated cruelty, callous indifference to the suffering of others and, of course, the endless capacity of human beings to manipulate and be manipulated. In short, “The Shape of Things” is a stomach-turning psychological examination which ventures into realms many of us would rather not acknowledge.
Adam (Paul Rudd) meets Evelyn (Rachel Weisz) at the art museum where he is employed just as she is planning to spray paint a male sex organ on a statue of God. The scenario is an obvious reference to Adam and Eve(lyn) in the Garden of Eden. Adam is so infatuated with Evelyn that he does nothing to prevent her from defacing the God figure. Instead, he asks her out on a date, which she accepts.
Adam is shy and bumbling, a bit overweight, with a habit of quoting the required reading from his English classes. Evelyn is an obnoxious amalgam of all those in pursuit of a fine arts education. She rants about art, truth and the importance of the artist. What appears to be love ensues, and Evelyn sets herself to the task of transforming her new beau into the type of über-male one might see in an Tommy Hilfiger ad.
The film was originally written as a play, which is evident throughout. LaBute did not open the piece up, and it plays more like a home video recording of a live theater performance than an actual film. It is composed almost entirely of claustrophobic close-ups of the four main characters with little attention to elements beyond their faces.
This could have been a conscious aesthetic decision made for the purpose of accentuating the psychological entanglements among the characters. But the work can’t stand on its own with such heavy dependence on the play from which it was derived. The only evidence that it is a movie is the clumsy addition of a soundtrack filled with the songs of Elvis Costello.
Admittedly, given the dialogue-driven material, opening up the play could have been a difficult move. However, even the acting at times seems to be much more suited for the stage than the screen. The style of delivery is histrionic rather than realistic, a problem one would have thought was left behind with the 1940s.
If these things can be considered mistakes, they are only surface-level problems, which the film rises above because the psychology of the piece is so intriguing. Adam is essentially being sculpted by his new love. He loses weight, stops biting his nails and even agrees to a nose job.
The relationship between Adam and Evelyn is humorously paralleled by the relationship of Jenny (Gretchen Mol) and Phillip (Fred Weller), Adam’s engaged friends who are the ideal picture of puritan love. As Philip explains, “You don’t say penis in Jenny’s house.” LaBute uses the milquetoast couple as constants to impart to the audience the drastic extent of Adam’s change.
The characters remain shallow. The camera does nothing to reveal their personalities. Each person is an idea of a person, a caricature. We aren’t surprised by their actions; we expect them, and the audience is not compelled to sympathize with the characters in any way. When Adam is finally betrayed by Evelyn – as happens in a plot twist that should not be revealed here – the impact upon the viewer is not of a personal nature.
The ending has a distant, voyeuristic quality, making it all the more sickening. One would assume that this is the intent. Certain things must be dissected by a dispassionate observer if they are to be seen for what they truly are. The results are often unpleasant.
