Punch-Drunk Love: "A Community of One"

This review was published originally on cinekklesia on October 5, 2005.

I have heard that a sociological definition of mental illness is "a community of one." This makes sense given that those who are defined as "mentally ill" often are portrayed as "living in their own reality," apart from society-at-large. I couldn't help but think of that definition when watching Paul Thomas Anderson's Punch-Drunk Love (2002), a wonderfully quirky snapshot of not only romantic love, but of life lived in a plane of existence that parallels—but is not completely in line with—the wider "reality."

My Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary (10th ed.) defines "punch-drunk" as "suffering cerebral injury from many minute brain hemorrhages as a result of repeated head blows received in boxing" and "behaving as if punch-drunk: DAZED, CONFUSED." I must confess that I do not recall seeing this term before my encounter with Anderson's film; however, after witnessing Adam Sandler's magnificent portrayal of Barry Egan, I find the title most apropos. Egan, the proprietor of a wholesale toilet plunger business, exhibits behavior that might be catalogued under the rubric of "anger management difficulties" or described as "impulse control disorder." This is not to say that he is a generally violent or thuggish personality (a la Marlon Brando's portrayal of Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire); for the most part, he is a rather mild-mannered, even timid, fellow. Nevertheless, he on occasion demonstrates strength and ferocity that simultaneously startle, amuse, and even inspire. For example, in one instance, he tears apart a public restroom (startling and amusing), and in another instance, he successfully beats up several thugs who threaten him (startling, amusing, and inspiring).

So, what makes Barry tick? Or, more importantly, what sets him off? Some feminists may not appreciate Anderson's implicit explanation: Barry's violent outbursts are the result of a malformed masculinity, a masculinity repressed by seven sisters who love him, yes, but who also treat him with condescension and ridicule (and who can't stop calling him at work in order to check up on him). Repression has a finite shelf life, and when Barry is ready to reclaim his manly self—when, in fact, he has no choice but to re-engage with his primordial, MASCULINE ESSENCE—then he explodes. Testosterone run amuck.

Okay, perhaps my psychobabble interpretation has gone too far. In fact, besides the aforementioned implication of gender essentialism, maybe Anderson doesn't have a psychological explanation for why Barry is the way he is. Anderson even pokes fun at our psycho-therapeutic culture in a memorable exchange between Barry and an in-law (after the former destroys his sister's plate glass windows): "I wanted to ask you something because you're a doctor....I don't like myself sometimes. Can you help me?" To which his in-law replies: "Barry, I'm a dentist. What kind of help do you think I could give you?"

Perhaps Anderson doesn't strive to "explain" or "teach" anything because he really just wants to tell a love story. Barry's sisters can't be all bad because one of them introduces him to Lena Leonard (Emily Watson), a sweet and charming Brit who is instantly entranced by the quirky businessman. She doesn't seem fazed by his occasional lapses in social decorum and is not put off by his unusual obsessions. For example, she doesn't consider it terribly odd that Barry has discovered an administrative glitch in a frequent flier mile promotion sponsored by Healthy Choice: "It's a marketing mistake but I'm taking advantage of it. If you were to spend $3,000, that would get you a million frequent flier miles. You would never have to pay for a ticket the rest of your life."

Lena doesn't even seem terribly unnerved at Barry's unique lexicon of romance: "I'm lookin' at your face and I just wanna smash it. I just wanna f****n' smash it with a sledgehammer and squeeze it. You're so pretty." In fact, she responds: "I want to chew your face, and I want to scoop out your eyes and I want to eat them and chew them and suck on them." Can you hear the birds sing? Do you feel an extra spring in your step? It must be love!

So, do I recommend Punch-Drunk Love? Absolutely! Despite the fact that Anderson is more famous for the critically acclaimed Magnolia, Punch-Drunk Love is, in fact, the better film. As mentioned, Anderson doesn't "try too hard" with this work; rather than construct a Big Theme, he just tells a story and allows the theme to rise naturally to the surface. Anderson also demonstrates a slower, more mature aesthetic; while Magnolia is frenetic and stressful, Punch-Drunk Love moves at a relaxed pace, gently encouraging the viewer to soak in everything: the lighting, the long camera shots, the characters. Magnolia is to Punch-Drunk Love what a loud food court at the mall is to a quiet, tucked-away cafe.

In addition, don't be put off by the fact that Adam Sandler plays the lead. That probably is the first oddity most people notice when they encounter Punch-Drunk Love, but Sandler is nevertheless the most appropriate actor for the role of Barry Egan. His performance is pitch-perfect, which begs two questions: Is Anderson such a good director that he could turn a toilet-humor actor into a screen gem, if only for 90 minutes? Or, is Sandler actually a diamond-in-the-rough, whose talents have been wasted by poor cinematic circumstances? Alas, until we see Sandler in another film of Punch-Drunk Love's caliber, we may never know.

So, what is the overarching, albeit subtle, "theme" of Punch-Drunk Love? Ultimately, Anderson's message parallels that of Jared Hess' Napoleon Dynamite. Both movies portray men who normally would be considered marginalized, even "mentally ill," but who nevertheless inhabit rich universes of wonderment and diversity. While their habits and obsessions initially render them members of the "community of one," they eventually meet women who desire to join their community. The romantic interests of Barry Egan and Napoleon Dynamite don't try to change them but rather, seek to understand and, ultimately, love them. Such love can work wonders: As we see near the end of Punch-Drunk Love, Barry's strength no longer comes from a wellspring of repressed masculinity but rather, from his relationship with Lena: "I have a love in my life. It makes me stronger than anything you can imagine." Now if Lena can just get Barry to control that strength.