Oedipus Wrecks

On Friday Michael and I saw "Chris and Don: A Love Story," the critically acclaimed documentary about the longtime relationship between the writer Christopher Isherwood and his 30-years-younger lover, Don Bachardy. The film has been the toast of numerous film festivals, most recently here in New York at NewFest, so even though I went into it knowing very little about the principals beyond "Berlin Stories," I was eager to see what all the buzz was about. Sure enough, we got to the theater and who did we see but Bachardy -- still sprightly at 74 -- coming out of the theater surrounded by a group of adoring friends and fans. The excitement was palpable and I was ready for showtime.

So what can I say about the film? To bad-mouth it would be unfair. Co-directors Guido Santi and Tina Mascara did a wonderful job of weaving interviews, voice overs, archival footage, cartoons (the couple's referring to each other as "horse" and "cat" is a recurring theme throughout their lives) and stunning home movies into a well-organized documentary that seems to capture the essence of the relationship. And when the opening scene shows a beautiful teenage Barchardy frolicking on Will Rogers Beach in the early 1950s, I thought to myself, Wow! this is going to be great. But then the reality of it all sets it, with the slightly creepy 49-year-old Isherwood appearing, and the revelations that he'd also slept with Don's also-teenage brother a few times (this one wound up in the nuthouse, where we see him today cutting out magazine clips of Josh Harnett), that his "upper-class" status made it impossible for him to be aroused by anyone of a similar "class" (so he needed to slum it with a middle-class California beach boy?), and that he'd forbidden Don from having a pet because it would siphon affection away from him. Suddenly what was presented as a great "love affair" for the ages started to look a lot more like the warped and lopsided dysfunctional relationship that most May/December relationships are. (Call me judgmental, but the whole thing just started to gross me out.) And as the film became less about Chris (whom I could at least admire as a writer) and more about Don (with whom I felt little connection), I found myself losing interest as it went on. It also might have been nice if they'd caught Don a few years earlier, because he's gotten to that age where he's a little loopy and cackles uncontrollably (for seemingly no reason), perhaps remembering funny things that he's forgotten to share with the other people in the room.

It's wrong to think that you have to like people profiled in documentaries in order to enjoy watching them, but you have to at least be intrigued by them. In the end I felt like I didn't really get to know Chris Isherwood much, and what I learned about Don Barchardy -- who spent his life with Isherwood and the writer's literary friends feeling like the least interesting person in the room -- isn't something I'll probably remember by week's end. (Sorry if I confirmed your worst fears, Don.)