People often equate the experience of watching something where a disastrous conclusion seems inevitable to witnessing a car crash in slow motion. Much media hinges on this morbid relationship. The viewer is attracted to the experience of watching something not because we hope it will get better, but because we know it gets worse. Palm Trees and Power Lines, the feature directorial debut by Jamie Dack, can be described within this context. It’s a film whose sinister outcome is so apparent from the outset that the only way forward is out of grim fascination. But for those attuned to watching media sympathetically, the question becomes: who is this for? What is it achieving beyond its slow, albeit realistic, descent into heavily telegraphed darkness?
The plot, adapted from Dack’s 2018 short film of the same name, follows a bored 17-year-old girl named Lea (Lily McInerny) listlessly whiling away the last few weeks of summer in the small California town she resides in with her single mother, Sandra (Gretchen Mol). The two share a tenuously strained relationship: Lea resents her mother’s yearning for love from a revolving door of anonymous men, yet she also resists her attention when it’s given. Much of the initial action is captured closely in handheld. She sunbathes and eats ice cream with her best friend, Amber (Quinn Frankel) and engages in unenthusiastic sex with a typically oblivious boy she may or may not be dating. This all changes when one night at a diner, she catches the eye of Tom (Jonathan Tucker), a 34-year-old guy with a pickup truck who first winks at her and then follows her home. The extremity of their age gap is obvious, but despite of, or perhaps because of the distinct allure of something forbidden, she allows him into her life.
Dack, who co-wrote the screenplay with Audrey Findlay, allows the story to play out in almost procedural detail, apparently informed by her own experiences. Lea and Tom’s relationship, platonic at first, quickly turns intimate. It should be obvious to anyone watching that Tom is a leering predator in the process of grooming a near-child, but he carries a mystique that works on teenage Lea. He’s older, mature and lives by his own rules. Her desire to be seen outside of the limited purview in which she’s existed outweighs any alarm bells that may go off, whether that be his “only temporary” home at a motel, her friends calling him a “pedophile” or the worried warning from a diner waitress whose seen him there “with other girls.” “There’s a phone in the back,” the waitress warns, “he doesn’t have to know.” Lea looks befuddled. It couldn’t possibly occur to her that this caring and handsome older man, who has shown her more interest as an individual than any of her peers, would have duplicitous intent.
Tom’s seduction of Lea unfolds in enraging but convincing detail. He says things that would make him appear vulnerable or make her feel special. He asks for consent, even though the hierarchy of power is obviously tilted in his direction. Tucker is terrifying in the role, the type of guy who would appear calm and empathetic, but with an emptiness behind the eyes that betrays him. When he tells Lea, “I don’t want you seeing other guys,” it reads to the viewer as a possessive power grab, but to her as love. McInerny’s debut performance is nuanced and crushing. Ambivalent and disconnected with her friends, we witness how Lea’s eyes light up around Tom. Being with him makes her feel vivid and wanted, and McInerny’s precise mannerisms convey that switch powerfully. Being with someone older can be a vindication for feeling mature, an agency you think you have until it slowly dissipates. When he does finally betray her trust, will it be enough to turn her away, or is it already too late?
Needless to say, Palm Trees and Power Lines is well-done. Its detailed and dread-soaked depiction of grooming could theoretically open the door for a discussion, or at least insight, into the circumstances in which a relationship like this can develop. But that’s kind of it. There’s no way to watch this movie without groaning at each poor decision Lea makes, however convincingly naïve. Similarly, Tom is so transparently malevolent to the viewer in spite of his chill-guy façade that there’s no room for tension or development beyond the gnawing anticipation of when the other shoe will drop. Dack’s lack of style behind the camera means that the only thing we can focus on is the story, which is so overwhelmingly unpleasant that it leaves little room to get engaged. The result isn’t necessarily exploitative, but it does feel gross, especially when the more upsetting scenes are executed in an extended, naturalistic fashion that’s surprisingly graphic given what Dack does decide to show.
Apart from the central relationship, much of Lea’s outside life, too, is portrayed in thick, blunt strokes. Mol’s Sandra is a one-note harried mother, whose difficult relationship with her daughter amounts to little more vague ambivalence or concern. It’s exactly what’s needed to justify the story – never more. Credit is owed to Dack for writing convincing teenagers, no easy task, but again, the approach is single-minded. It’s the type of filmmaking that’s commendable in detail but short on the texture that brings a film alive. For those already privy to the issues Palm Trees and Power Lines addresses, the obvious approach will only lead to knowing groans. Worse yet, it could be downright triggering for the wrong audience. Like the titular ‘power lines’ we repeatedly watch Lea walk under, it initiates a low, disconcerting buzz, but ultimately fades into the background.
Photo courtesy of Momentum Pictures
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