Writer-director Lawrence Michael Levine appears to be making a point with Black Bear, but the problem is that the point is nearly impossible to determine. This is a movie that begins as one thing, reveals itself to be something else entirely, and ends on a note that suggests it is, in fact, neither of those other two things at all. In other words, this is a difficult film to discuss, even as a simple matter of determining what is a “spoiler” and what is simply part of the story (consider this a “spoiler warning” of sorts, then, even though the experience of watching it cannot be ruined). It’s also difficult to determine whether this experiment of purpose and thematic intent actually works. Whether it works even seems slightly beside the point – again, whatever that point is.
At first, it seems to be the story of Allison (Aubrey Plaza), an independent filmmaker of minor renown (or, as she puts it, of “horrible, small movies nobody saw”) who has arrived at a cabin in the woods to find a bit of solace. Instead, she finds its owners, Gabe (Christopher Abbott) and Blair (Sarah Gadon), and a bunch of deep, probing conversations about, well, a lot of circular and semi-philosophical issues. This part of the movie is about ingratiating us to the personalities of the characters and the commitment of the actors (each of whom is convincing and naturalistic, for what it’s worth) to some genuinely demanding monologues. Allison tends to boil everything down to a joke. Blair prefers God’s honest truth. Gabe is somewhere in the middle. They all have An Opinion About Something.
In the process, Levine and the actors reveal layers. Aspersions are cast, allegations are leveled, and it all leads to an entirely avoidable tragedy. This is only half the movie, though. In the second part, it seems that everything we know is a fabrication, though it only seems that way. Allison and Blair are actresses in a movie (called Black Bear, of course) being directed by Gabe, all while the surrounding crew (some of whom are played by Lindsay Burdge, Paola Lázaro and Jennifer Kim) juggles the demands of the controlling Gabe and the increasing instability of Allison’s substance abuse. This part of the movie seems to be making its overall point: Immersion in an art form can make its creators go mad. At least it seems to be making that point.
Our sympathetic perspective, then, must shift as radically as do the perspectives of character, tone and intention in Levine’s screenplay. For some, this will be enough or even more than enough to sustain one’s investment in the two halves of the story. For others (such as this writer), it will simultaneously be too much and not enough. It’s too much because Levine is piling a lot of heavy material – not only involving substance abuse and infidelity, but also potentially mental illness and, because of the metatextual approach, the artistic drive that results from all of those things at once. It’s not enough because the combination of all these disparate elements and mixtures of tone, plus the dichotomous structure, does the story no favors.
Indeed, it’s difficult to pin down what Levine is going for (beyond the desire to make any given audience member furrow their brow a handful of times) until the final scenes, which both redefine every major perspective we have and end things with a strange punchline that is both amusingly literal and frustratingly figurative. That will sound like complete nonsense, removed as it is from the surrounding context, to anyone who hasn’t seen the movie but make perfect sense to those who have experienced it. Black Bear certainly has quite a lot of nerve in its examination of the curse of the artist. It has enough nerve, in fact, that one will wish its satirical vision had a bit more thematic integrity.
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