Rachel Getting Married

About ¾ of the way through Rachel Getting Married, the formalities of the nuptial begin and the groom (Tunde Adebimpe) sings an a cappella rendition of Neil Young’s Unknown Legend to his soon-to-be bride (Rosemarie DeWitt) at the altar.
It is a very strange moment in a film wonderfully full of them and portends the most confusingly themed, convoluted reception I have ever witnessed on film or in person. And I’ve been to some pretty fucking weird weddings.
The celebration is as if a subway car of people in midtown Manhattan attended a comic book convention that was being held inside a renaissance fair that had been plunked down in a Buddhist ashram in the middle of Bombay, India.
I’m not sure who coordinated or planned this thing but I do know they are bat shit crazy.
Let me try to explain. There is belly dancing, reggae, African drumming, jazz, a Ganesh cake (Ganesh Ganache?), a Hendrix-like rendition of Wagner’s Bridal Chorus and an inexplicable acoustic cameo from Robyn Hitchcock. All that was missing was some Afghan scream chanting and speed metal. I’m just glad I didn’t get a gander at the hors d’oeuvres. By the way, all of this is in the middle of white bread Connecticut.
Now, I’m all for multiculturalism, but someone needs to get a grip on themselves.
But Rachel’s marriage is not the true focus of Jonathon Demme’s ensemble piece. The core of the film lies in the strained familial relationships caused by the fresh-out-of-rehab sister Kym (an amazing performance by Anne Hathaway). She is an emotional dirty bomb, set to detonate in the heart of her otherwise normal, seemingly well-adjusted family.
Selfish, paranoid, needy, nervous and calculatingly flippant, she turns her sister’s wedding weekend into the “Kym Show”, the psychological fallout of which threatens the cohesion of the family and claws at old wounds thought to be healed.
She is a one woman wrecking crew.
Demme owes a lot to Robert Altman’s freewheeling style here. We get to meander through the crowds at the wedding and down the hallways of the home, stealing tangential glimpses and hearing side conversations. Much of the camera work is intimately handheld and the acting comes off as markedly improvisational (in a good way). We’re all too privy to the internal emotional machinations of each family member and the proximity is, at times, cringe inducing.
I had heard this film being billed as a “serio-comedy” or “dramedy”. Do not be fooled by that false marketing technique. This is grim shit. The few laughs are titters in what is an uncomfortable gaze into the dynamic of a family trying to celebrate a beautiful beginning, but being forever dragged back into its haunted, damaged past.