The Time Being | Review

Time Crime: Cicin-Sain’s Debut an Empty Trinket

On a positive note, the benefit of watching Nenad Cicin-Sain’s directorial (and screenwriting debut) could definitely serve as a testament for the necessity of a well-written screenplay in the filmmaking process. Co-written with producer Richard N. Gladstein (also a feature screenplay debut), The Time Being is an underwhelmingly written piece of cinematic sod, made all the more disappointing for sporting a dazzling visual scheme and fantastic original score. An elaborate set-up moonlighting as a mystery thriller morphs into a confoundingly stagnant familial drama.

A struggling artist, Daniel (Wes Bentley), pursues his artistic endeavors to the detriment of his family’s economic well-being. A recent art exhibit of his work doesn’t result in any sales, but a possible commission is called into Eric (Corey Stoll), who has funded the exhibition space. A man named Warner (Frank Langella) has requested that Daniel visit him in his remote mansion.

An old curmudgeon in failing health, Warner’s odd comments, like “Artists don’t have families,” along with the “work” he hires Daniel to do, including arriving at specific locales at odd hours to film landscapes, at first hint at a foreboding, ominous secret. Alone with his wife, Olivia (Ahna O’Reilly), their bitchy encounters concerning money explains why Daniel would agree to be paid for such strange ridiculousness, but, of course a pattern slowly emerges because the same woman (Sarah Paulson) keeps popping up at each filming assignment.

Before it can really even cash in on the potentially unsettling set-up, The Time Being quickly reveals that its vague clues are really only masking the fact that there’s no dramatic tension and a plot so insignificant that a short feature would have been more appropriate. While trying to examine the difficulty of reconciling an artist’s identity with the banality of everyday responsibilities, The Time Being wastes its potential on trite passages of dialogue and melodramatic flourishes, such as Langella’s Warner sobbing over a portrait and collapsing to the floor over his emotional distress.

What’s more of a pity is the complete waste of the effectively menacing Langella, spewing his bitchy proclamations with relish. Wes Bentley, on the other hand, isn’t emotive in any sense, rather a walking automaton, styled distractingly as if he hailed from the late 90s. Bit roles for the talents of Stoll and Paulson see these characters completely wasted (Stoll would have been a much better choice for the lead). Cicin, a music video director, relies on what he knows, and employs cinematographer Mihai Malaimare Jr. (of The Master and Tetro) to give us visually arresting compositions, including even the belabored shots of images in Daniel’s pupils. Likewise, Polish composer Jan A.P. Kaczmarek supplies a Philip Glass inspired score, made all the more noticeable for rousing our senses to the absolute nothing transpiring on the screen.