The Utter Emotional Inauthenticity of Netflix’s Malcolm & Marie

The Utter Emotional Inauthenticity of Netflix’s Malcolm & Marie The initial impulses that brought Netflix’s Malcolm & Marie into being — which was filmed during the ongoing coronavirus pandemic in Carmel, California last summer with a twenty-person crew in two weeks — weren’t wholly rotten, even though the film they ushered into being clearly is. A black-and-white two-hander guided by the rising tensions between its central couple could have bloomed into an intriguing picture if it was shaped by the right artists. After all, much of great cinema rests on the sparks that develop between two actors in a room. But to pull off such a spare premise requires strong storytelling and precise casting — which this film glaringly lacks, even though writer/director Sam Levinson wrote the story with Zendaya and John David Washington in mind. (The actors also produced the film and had a hand in how it was shaped, especially the former.)
Malcolm & Marie is a failure on nearly every level. But the visuals are what struck me immediately — from the achingly minimalist home that provides the setting to the use of 35-mm-photographed shadows within it — which feel slick yet sterile, devoid of the gravitas intended by such production choices. They set the stage for a film that isn’t just notably bad but tellingly so, indicative of a larger issue: what Hollywood believes “serious” art and modern stardom should look like is frankly abysmal.
When Malcolm & Marie begins, it’s evident the titular characters exist in different rhythms. He exuberantly (and obnoxiously) extols the delights of premiering his first feature film as a writer and director, which pushes him to the cusp of newfound power and prestige. She has a mien that reads as sullen, bored, and utterly over it. The it being him and his prickly, delicate ego. Decked in a cleanly designed suit and gown after the evening’s premiere, the couple’s resentments and complications simmer amongst the carefully curated instruments of their home. Marie doesn’t want to talk, preferring instead to fuss over boxed mac and cheese likes it’s high cuisine. But he pushes, and the hurts they’ve kept a tally of unfurl. She’s upset he didn’t thank her in his speech that night. But this concern obscures an even deeper one. She believes he’s used her life for his film — her history with addiction, her attempt to become sober at 20, her depression. He’s the artist. She’s the muse. And she’s not okay with this uneven dynamic. Through their sundering, Levinson aims to explore not only the demarcation between love and hate in a relationship, but the broader realities of being a black filmmaker in Hollywood, and the value of film critics in this world. (The latter subject serves as bait for the very critics engaging in Malcolm & Marie, which is why it’s best left alone. Audiences unaware of Levinson’s relationship with criticism won’t suffer from not understanding this.)
With so many themes and ideas to unpack, Washington plays Malcolm Elliot like a wind-up toy who doesn’t know his own limits. At the end of his laborious monologues about the nature of filmmaking and being a black director, he’s often left spent, breathing heavily as if he just ran a marathon. It’s such a heavy-handed decision, a grasping at profundity, limning Washington’s alarming limitations as an actor. He seems unable to wrap his mouth around the overloaded, rapid-fire dialogue. Zendaya doesn’t fare much better. I’m not sure any two actors could save the film from its own overwrought script and grand self-importance. She feels especially ill-suited for the bawdy, forceful role, yet Washington seems the easier target for disdain, given how Malcolm is written and positioned.
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