The Assistant
Crit
Jane wants to be a film producer, so she doesn't mind the Uber commute from an Astoria that seems to be somewhere east of the Hamptons, and she doesn't mind the 15-hour days of work that includes making the coffee and doing the lunch runs and cleaning the boss's sofa (don't ask) and other tasks they apparently teach at Northwestern; she doesn't even mind (much) her hierarchical debasement before two colleagues who aren't much more experienced and are substantially less professional but who have been blessed with penises. She is going to make it in this biz, and she knows there are exorbitant dues to be paid.
But Jane has a problem. No, don't be silly: her problem isn't her Harvey Weinsteinish boss, a bullying sexual predator. She's lucky, you see, as an unsympathetic HR drone tells her: she's "not his type."
The problem, Jane's potentially professionally fatal flaw, is a conscience. Which might explain her not-his-typeness: Jane wears that disfiguring flaw on her face from the start of her commute to the donut she tries to choke down for dinner. This is a spare film, soft-spoken and elliptical, and it's that face--of Julia Garner--that does most of the heavy lifting. Garner (who is about the 15th-best reason to binge The Americans if you somehow missed it--and there are so many reasons to watch the series that 15th-best is still a very good reason), like the film, doesn't do flash, but few actors her age can do stoic defeat as well. Contemplating the career the actor should have ahead of her is some consolation for having to contemplate the career probably awaiting the character.
- Holy crap, new Wes Anderson movie coming, with all my favorite actors! The French Dispatch. And the few favorite actors who aren't in that are in Sally Potter's upcoming The Roads Not Taken.
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