Jim Jarmusch’s greatest skill as a writer is his ability to make blunt, revealing points about human nature. The most memorable quote in his latest film Father Mother Sister Brother is “You can’t choose your family.” It’s not a new sentiment, but all three segments of Jarmusch’s anthology collection present scenarios where family reunions don’t go as planned. In the first two acts, siblings intend to watch out for their parents, but end up in conversation with each other; in the final third, two siblings attempt to move on after the death of their parents, but find themselves unable to discuss anything else. The most prominent recurring image in Father Mother Sister Brother is a glass of water; it’s not very exciting, but it's necessary to remain in good health. Jarmusch may have intended for this sentiment to represent his feelings on family, but it's also an apt description of the film itself.
Many filmmakers have tried the format, but anthology films are rarely great, and usually inconsistent. Jarmusch isn’t a stranger to the structure; Night on Earth revolved around a series of unusual taxi cab drives in different cities, and Coffee & Cigarettes consisted of various conversations between strangers, colleagues, and acquaintances that enjoy their pain and pleasure together. Neither film had the same profundity as Jarmusch’s best work, such as the neo-western Dead Man or the road trip adventure Down by Law, but they had enough charismatic stars spread evenly among segments for the pacing to never crawl to a halt. Comparatively, Father Mother Sister Brother is composed of three segments that may have worked better as standalone short films; when watched in sequence, their broad similarities make for a derivative viewing experience.
Jarmusch has worked for over four decades, and maybe he’s taken for granted. That said, those who have obsessively watched all of his films will find it easier to point out whenever his latest projects feel like “greatest hits” compilations. Although the same could be said of other didactic, idiosyncratic filmmakers like Wes Anderson, Noah Baumbach, or Woody Allen, Jarmusch’s work hasn’t become more venomous with age. In the last decade, he directed his two most emotionally expressive works with Paterson and Only Lovers Left Alive.
Father Mother Sister Brother may have been intended as a throwback to the underground chintziness of his earliest work on Permanent Vacation or Stranger Than Paradise, but neither Jarmusch or his characters feel like underdogs anymore. The scrapiness was charming when Jarmusch’s stories were those of losers, outcasts, and degenerates who only had dense conversations to soothe their boredom. Given that Jarmusch was able to enlist many award-winning stars to appear in his new independent film, it’s not shocking that it’s focused on middle-class characters without significant burdens. Jarmusch shouldn’t be criticized for the stability in his career, but it’s frustrating that he’s earned a bigger stage for work that hasn’t evolved in style.
The opening segment of the film, dubbed “Father,” is the strongest because of its clever punchlines. Jarmusch’s dialogue is simultaneously dry and whimsical, but it’s not inauthentic when spoken from a peculiar actor like Adam Driver. Driver’s cast as a recent divorcee who has reunited with his sister (Mayim Bialik) to visit their aging father (Tom Waits), who has shown signs of inattentiveness. It’s a nuanced examination of what it’s like to deal with an aging parent, but doesn’t get into emotionally taxing questions of mortality or mental decline; instead, Jarmusch found the humor in children who become their parents’ babysitters. Bialik’s line delivery may sound like she’s still in “sitcom mode,” but Driver’s awkward physical tics suggest a disconnect between the two characters that neither of them are fully able to talk about. Waits’ rumbly, grizzled voice is also a fit for Jarmusch’s slice of reality; there’s wisdom to his observations, no matter how quaint they may seem.
It’s the second act, “Mother,” in which the film’s interiority is revealed to be far more simplistic than the ambiguous conclusion to “Father” had suggested. It’s the story of the sisters Timothea (Cate Blanchett) and Lilith (Vicky Krieps), who find themselves reverted to their adolescent dynamic after tea with their mother (Charlotte Rampling). The gag’s made evident early on; even the most matured siblings are in competition for their parents’ attention, and they need an adult presence as an excuse to see each other. Blanchett and Krieps do their best to keep the characters broad and distinct, but it’s not enough to fill 40 minutes of time with what’s about 10 minutes of material. Rampling is an adventurous actress, but her performance is lacking in the slightly ironic edge needed to fit within Jarmusch’s style.
The final third, which is expectedly revealed to be called “Sister Brother,” is tonally removed from its two predecessors with its solemn, contemplative gravity. The twins Billy (Luka Sabbat) and Skye (Indya Moore) have lost their parents, and only have a few items left in their apartment and storage container to remember them by. Any subtly to this depiction of grief is excised by the point that Billy and Skye begin to openly question who their parents were, and speculate if they’re destined to walk down a similar path; if that point wasn’t clear enough, Billy and Skye discover they bear a striking resemblance to photos of their young parents to drive home the point that “history repeats itself.”
Jarmusch has never made a film that’s entirely devoid of merit, and even the dullest sections of Father Mother Sister Brother occasionally feature the poetry of a filmmaker who’s never bowed to convention. However, those that anticipated a late-career masterpiece may be disappointed, particularly in wake of the accolades that Father Mother Sister Brother has already been awarded. The film was curiously given the “Golden Lion” prize at this year’s Venice Film Festival; last year, it was given to The Room Next Door, a puzzlingly tepid film from the brilliant Pedro Almodovar. If the Golden Lion was once a trophy handed to masterworks like Red Desert and The Battle of Algiers, it has become an indication of minor works in the canon of great auteurs.