Unfaithful: Review By B. Alan Orange

Code Orange Alert #38810: Unfaithful

I'm a chump.

I thought I'd throw that out there for all my detractors. Guess what? I'm also a defeatist. The first sign of an attack has me backing up with hands out, "Take it, dude. It's not that big of a deal to me." Sure, I say that now. But we all know it's not true. I dwell on these failures, trying to extract any hint of humility from them. The United States would belong to Germany had I been Secretary of State during WWII. I give up without a second's thought or a bit of hesitation; I just give in. Especially when it comes to girls. If I were in Richard Gere's shoes, I would have put my head down and said, "F*ck it."

If my girl wants to couch a turd by doing the pony-up with some handsome Italian stud, who am I to stop her? If that's what she wants to do, then that's what she wants to do. Of course, this far into the game with not a hint of feminine scent leased into my fractured bones, just one night with a Tina Yothers look-alike would have me singing for six decades. So, possibly, I'm the wrong person to broach this subject. I'm so starved for affection; I'd be bringing home every exotic stallion in my neighborhood just to keep her happy. But, yes, deep down I'd want to steady a lead-based snow globe in my weak grip just for cracking open skulls, too. Sitting here, right now, I honestly feel as though I've been raped.

And then there's this overwhelming sense of deja vu.

There are only two things in my life at the moment: A new user-friendly barcalounger and this maddening obsession with getting sandwiches out of the vending machine upstairs. I don't know why I keep buying those sandwiches. They don't taste too good. But I like them. I just have to have one every night around 4 in the morning. Have you ever walked into a video store and taken a look at all the video boxes against the wall? Every single one proclaims that it's "Excellent. A very Good Movie. Exciting. Funny." Even the worst films are given support by some hapless critic from a publication you've never heard of. Someone has to sell the point home. It's called the art of the shill. Well, here's my first guilty pleasure of the year. It might be a pile of sh*t, but let me heap praise on Unfaithful anyway. It's just like those sandwiches I get out of the automat; I can't stop loving it.

I know; it's not my usual fare. Strangely, sitting there, halfway through, I didn't want it to end. I've never been a fan of Richard Gere, yet, at the same time, I've never disliked the man. I just don't think he's been in anything I've cared for. Here, in Adrian Lyne's new domestic drama/thriller, The Gere is The Sh*t. Just look at his face when he first appears on screen. He peers into the kitchen at his quaint little family, he checks out his super hot wife, Diane Lane, and then looks at his ass-ugly son. You can just see the desperation in his face. No wonder he looks like he's about to give up on the World. He's beautiful, his wife is beautiful, yet together they've produced the annoyingly scary Eric Per Sullivan (of Malcolm in the Middle). This kid pisses on toilet seats. Sure, he's talented and funny, but Gere just has a problem contemplating the fact that this nasty seed sped out of his urethra. You can see it on the man's face, and from that moment on, I knew I'd dig the film.

Really, though: Gere has nothing to complain about. His life is exemplary. His relationship with his wife, eleven years in, is still fresh and going strong. It looks to be all bliss and sexual favors late at night. Diane Lane isn't in a horrible marriage here. She's complacent, but that may be the problem. She's the one who seeks out that upstairs eye candy. Why, with such a happy consortium and loving home life, would this resentful whor* go seeking the inner thighs of a domesticated immigrant? Well, she does it for herself. She's losing her looks, she's tempting menopause, and her existence is docile. Her bedroom manner with Gere is strictly a loving, tender one. There is no beast-f*cking going on in their Sumner home. Lane's relationship with the Rico-Suave bookophile Paul Martel is based purely on a carnal, animalistic need to procreate.

She desires hardcore porno sex, almost as an afterthought. Martel comes into her life during a very prolific windstorm. He is the strong gust that knocks the woman over, and blows Gere and poor tiny Eric Per Sullivan across their scattered driveway. Motives concerning the affair are never spoken, yet you can sense them in the metaphors and emotions handed out. The craftsmanship on Lyne's part is par for the course. Some scenes illicit laughter from the audience, but it's a nervous giggle that peeks from truisms found in the situation. Sure, the first thing you do after banging a midlife housewife in the bathroom of your local deli is smell your fingers. Onlookers are still going to laugh at you, especially if they know what you're doing. Sad, but true.

This sexy antique book dealer, whom Lane accidentally bumps into on that blustery day, boosts the woman's curiosity. She's compelled to seek out Martel and seduce him. The man is basically a human vibrator. A walking, talking dildo kept at the bottom of a locked drawer. He's only doing what comes naturally. If we were going to blame someone, it would have to be Lane. The first time they engage in sexual intercourse is horrifyingly accurate. Their communion is a trembling, nervous wreck. Martel is clumsy, yet careful not to scratch the surface. Diane is so scared, and so giving of her emotions, it's an uncomfortable moment to sit through. This is one of the truest portraits of an actual sex act I've ever seen committed to film. Of course, once the woman gets over her shivers of sweat, she becomes a naughty little c*ck tickler. And Paul eases in as easily as a shoehorn.

The first half of the film is given over to their ardent liaison. Gere severely plays down his part for much of this time, almost becoming transparent. Lane is off because her housewife duties have become mundane and mediocre, words that sum up Richard's whole husband persona. He doesn't jump to the occasion until the arc of the second act. Instinctively, he knows that his wife is up to no good, and eventually he seeks out the paramour who has been fouling his spouse's dried-up sugar wallet. Gere walks into Martel's apartment, and there's a tiny priceless moment where the two men size each other up. After a couple glasses of Vodka, Gere cracks open the gigolo's dome with a snow globe. This sequence could have easily squeaked itself into last week's Jason X; Paul just stands there in a state of shock as a bucket of blood drips down his blank face. I cheered inside. Surprisingly, the audience cheered alongside me in a beastly display of emotions. From here, the movie turns into a funnier version of Weekend at Bernie's as Gere tries, unsuccessfully for a while, to dispose of the man's dead body.

Unfaithful is a voyeuristic exercise. There's something satisfying about peering into the life of this seemingly happy family and watching it fall apart. If it were up to me, I wouldn't have killed the boyfriend. It wasn't his fault. He was having a good time, nothing more. Gere negates him in a moment of hazed-out rage. Understandable. I would have killed the wife. I had to shake my head in agreement when Gere told that exact thing to Lane. That he would have like to crack open her skull instead. It only seemed like the right thing to do, no?

Adrian Lyne hit similar ground with his epic Michael Douglas exercise, Fatal Attraction. The difference between the two films is that in the first one we see how a man gives into an adulterous affair. Here, we see the woman's point of view from Lyne's own psyche. A similar thread between the two films is that in both, the women are stupid and selfish and the men are strong and heated, justifiably. Fatal Attraction's centerpiece was a boiled bunny on a stovetop. Here, instead of a rabbit, we have Eric Per Sullivan who loudly states, "I don't want to be a dumb bunny." He is referring to his part in the school play, but moreover, he is kindly stating that he doesn't want to be used as an object of hatred. He doesn't want to end up like the hare soup in Fatal Attraction.

There is a scene in the middle of the film where Lane is cooking, and Eric is sitting on the kitchen counter. There are numerous shots of bubbling pans, and Mom eventually burns the food, too caught up in her daydreams about the sexy book dealer. I thought for sure something awful was going to happen to that kid. But sadly, no. I know I shouldn't look for disappointment in a cheesy flick like this, but the fact that harm never comes to that little cherub is disheartening. It seemed they were setting him up to be the rabbit, but alas, he never gets to be the dumb bunny. He does don a bunny suit near the end, though. Listen closely to the words he's singing; very funny stuff when they're being inter-cut alongside his Dad's struggle with the dead Paul Martel.

Cheaters is my favorite show. This is basically an unaired episode of Cheaters that went horribly wrong somewhere down the line; a show that got locked in the vaults. It's too bad that when Richard Gere hires a detective to find out if and who his wife is having an affair with, he didn't go with Cheaters' host Tommy Habeeb. That would have been a hoot. Unfaithful isn't really worth checking out. I say that because I heard people behind me screaming, "It sucked more ass than B. Alan's upright vacuum cleaner."

I disagree, though. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Maybe it's because I see a lot of Diane Lane's character in a few of my female friends. Maybe it's because things take a disastrous turn, and I like it when the wheels fall off a better car than the one parked in my own driveway.

I need to pay closer attention to the road signs ahead of me. One trip to the bathroom too many can mean the end of many things. Sad, but true.