Reel Love Vs. Real Love

If you can't stand the heat...: Gary (Vince Vaughn) and Brooke (Jennifer Aniston) squabble in The Break-Up. Photo Melissa Moseley. Courtesy Universal Pictures.

Any moviegoer who buys a ticket to The Break-Up claiming no prior knowledge of Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn’s real-life affaire de coeur is either (a) a terrible fibber or (b) in the process of assimilating into society after being reared by baboons. If the truth is indeed some variant on (b), I envy the ignorance.

Vaughn and Aniston’s relationship — tabloid shorthand: “Vaughniston” — has been an ineluctable part of the marketing of this new romantic comedy. Gary (Vaughn) and Brooke (Aniston) are a seemingly contented Chicago couple with gratifying jobs (he gives bus tours, she works in a high-end art gallery) and a luxe downtown condo.

While preparing for a dinner party one night, Gary brings home three lemons instead of the 12 Brooke requested in order to make a centrepiece. A tiff ensues, but is deferred until after the guests have left, when it escalates into a bilious argument that climaxes with Gary accusing Brooke of being a relentless nag. Stunned by his utter lack of respect, she announces they’re through.

Watching The Break-Up is a lot like staring at the sun. Although you know you should just shield your eyes, curiosity compels you to take the occasional peek; alas, those brief glimpses only confirm that you’re doing lasting damage to your retinas. My aversion to the film is based equally on the tiresome premise and the distracting sideshow of Aniston’s love life.

Cinema has always relied on what George Orwell called “doublethink.” (Rest assured, he wasn’t pondering movies when he coined the phrase.) Doublethink is the human ability to hold two contradictory beliefs with equal fervour. One possible example is condemning Prohibition as a failure while supporting the ongoing U.S. war on drugs. In the case of movies, it’s believing a cinematic performance, while knowing that it was just a performance — and that despite her inflated salary and affection for gaudy bling, an actress is indeed an ordinary human being with a private life.

Doublethink depends on our capacity to subconsciously keep our dueling biases on a certain topic separate. For moviegoers, this is becoming increasingly hard to do, thanks to gossip magazines. The tabloids have always snooped into the private lives of celebrities: Just think of the coverage of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton’s romance during the filming of pictures like Cleopatra (1963) and Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966). Since then, tabloid culture has only become more intrusive, powerful and relentless. From US Weekly to Gawker, we’re inundated with details both major and minor about the private lives of the stars.

The Break-Up suffers from glib writing, crass stereotypes and an inert plot — but it scarcely matters, because it’s Jennifer Aniston’s first major film since her very public split with ex-husband Brad Pitt. We know that she eventually found succour in the arms of Vaughn, but the film is an opportunity for moviegoers to see whether Jenny has truly gotten her groove back. It’s impossible to watch The Break-Up outside of this context.

This is what happens when you tango: Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie in Mr. & Mrs. Smith. Courtesy 20th Century Fox.

After being dumped, Gary refuses to vacate their condo. Brooke resolves to provoke his jealousy by dressing more provocatively and inviting potential suitors to her home. Aniston dons an array of body-hugging, cleavage-flaunting dresses; meanwhile, her skin is burnished to an ungodly orange hue. She stalks around and strikes poses, looking like a marzipan sculpture. The charade is ostensibly intended for a fictional character — Gary — but one can imagine Jen whispering under her breath, Look at me, Brad. I’ve got a hard body, a wicked fake bake and my new boyfriend’s funnier than you. Any regrets?

Moviegoers fell into a similar reverie while watching Pitt and Angelina Jolie in Mr. & Mrs. Smith (2005). After all, it was while shooting the tongue-in-cheek actioner that Pitt cheated on Aniston, which led to the clever portmanteau “Brangelina,” many months of fevered tabloid speculation and, finally, the dissolution of Aniston’s marriage.

The off-screen tittle-tattle brought a heightened interest to Mr. & Mrs. Smith, an energetic black comedy about two married assassins. We listened closely to Pitt and Jolie’s dialogue for self-referential innuendo; we analyzed their body language for evidence of real — as opposed to just reel — love. As with The Break-Up, it was hard to divorce the film from the off-screen soap opera.

If such confluences of true and fictional romance teach us anything, it’s that real-life drama never improves what’s happening on screen. One need only think of Gigli (2003). In it, Ben Affleck plays Larry Gigli, a dunderheaded hoodlum who kidnaps the disabled son of a powerful lawyer. Larry guards the abducted boy with the help of an assassin named Ricki, played by Affleck’s then-girlfriend Jennifer Lopez. While Ricki is a lesbian, she feels a strange need to titillate straitlaced Larry. In one fatuous scene, Lopez’s character gives Affleck a yoga demonstration while waxing pretentious about female sexual gratification; although intended to demonstrate Ricki’s progressive sexuality, the scene is clearly just a vehicle to show J-Lo’s booty.

If I’d been ignorant of Jen and Ben’s real-life courtship, I probably would have ruminated on whether the scene revealed character or furthered the plot. Forearmed, however, with the knowledge that Lopez and Affleck were indeed romantic mates, my only thought was, I sure hope Ben’s getting off on this, because I, for one, am bored.

Andre Mayer writes about the arts for CBC.ca.

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