A preteen slowly finds her own orbit in 'Janet Planet'
Playwrights can have a tough time fulfilling celluloid ambitions, as what can live and breathe in a theatrical experience can feel hopelessly out of reach from a screen. But much as Celine Song gracefully emerged from the stage for a rightly lavished directorial debut in “Past Lives,” Annie Baker has likewise figured out how to transfer her particular set of Pulitzer Prize-winning skills to film.
If, that is, you can go with it. The comparisons keep coming, because much like Song’s cinematic masterpiece, Baker’s approach wouldn’t work nearly as well if she also hadn’t taken charge of the writing duties. She’s a woman who knows how to wait, and this applies to more than observing the codependent relationship between 11-year-old Lacy (Zoe Ziegler) and her single mother Janet (Julianne Nicholson) over the course of the summer of 1991 in rural Massachusetts. It’s how we grasp the subtly obvious dynamics of everyone in their orbit during those few months as everyone slowly reveals themselves.
What we see through Lacy’s eyes is so gently, unsentimentally observed, in fact, that Song is quickly thrown over for the nostalgic reminiscences of “Aftersun,” another film by a female director who made a critically acclaimed debut in middle age. The main difference is in how little the adults Lacy observes seem to have their shit figured out. And “Aftersun” eventually wins out in terms of comparison, since it also left me wondering what the point of it all was.
“Past Lives” invited quietly painful consideration even for a life as well lived as Song’s, but discomfort isn’t a selling point in “Planet” (or “Aftersun” for that matter). Even puberty fails to be much of a consideration, with its eventual approach circling out of frame, sometimes barely. It’s a potential agent of chaos for Lacy and Janet, but that’ll just have to wait as they navigate the experimental hippie vibe of their small community, vividly realized with some help from “Godland” cinematographer Maria von Hausswolff.
A certain amount of economic stability seems to be a given, so most people in this very leftist neck of the woods will barely be bothered to raise their voices. Yet as the trio of people Janet invites into their world and home fall by the wayside, the undercurrents which remove them one by one slowly and surely take their course.
Lacy observes them for reasons that go beyond her appointed role as Baker’s semi-autobiographical stand-in: she admits herself that she doesn’t have any friends. She’s unsure as to why, but not invested in discovering the reason. Loneliness doesn’t press in on her, and she seems to prefer her own company when not in her mother’s. Even her bodily reaction against returning to school is likely a subconscious desire to protect Janet from (potentially at least) her worst choice in men yet.
Baker is also sparing enough with the realistic dialogue to ensure that what little there is spells out Janet’s problem, which is common enough. She’s so used to her earthy charms drawing people in that she’s gotten far too comfortable being fed by them rather than challenged or truly nourished. When someone predictably falls out of love with her, she’s aware that there’s another option somewhere, and her surroundings almost seem to exist to protect her from the fallout that would lead to far more dramatic and disastrous consequences elsewhere.
Lacy’s gradual separation from her mother isn’t merely her growing awareness of her flaws; it’s heavily implied that it’s also her dawning perception of how Janet will likely decline further as age encroaches upon her patterns. But then, kids don’t take it out on the dads do they?
Grade: B+
