GRAY MATTERS, alas, doesn’t. At least not when it comes to making a comedy about the heartbreak of love. It is, rather, a collection of fragments of ideas that fail to coalesce in any meaningful way. The result is dull, contrived, obvious, and at 96 minutes, seemingly endless.
Heather Graham and Thomas Cavanagh play Sam and Gray, New York semi-sophisticates (he’s a surgeon-to-be, she’s an ad exec), brother and sister and very best friends. They share a trendy loft, enjoy ballroom dancing, old movies, and running in the park. In fact, they are just about perfect for each other except for that part about being siblings. It’s more complicated than that, but more about that anon. After once again being mistaken for a couple as in “meaningful relationship”, they decide that the best thing for them to do is to set about finding each other’s perfect mate. Some fluffy nonsense at a dog park, culminating in what can only be interpreted by someone not in the film as a case of double stalking results in Sam finding his own true love, Charlie (Bridget Moynihan). Sam goes after her like she was the first drink of cool water after thirty miles of hot dusty road. That Charlie is new to New York may explain why she didn’t run screaming from this creepy duo, but that’s being far too kind to this lean-to of a script. Within a week, Sam has proposed eloping to Las Vegas, Charlie has accepted, and Gray is about to deal with more than just losing her best friend. The night before the wedding, overcome by two bottles of champagne, the bubble bath that they took together, and some spirited belting of disco ballads at a club, Gray does something she’s never done before. She makes a pass at another woman, that would be Charlie, of course, who may or may not be conscious of what is going on. In any case, she doesn’t so much rebuff Gray as pass out.
This may sound promising, but it never comes close to living up to its potential. The script is ragged, not unlike Graham, who resembles Raggedy Anne, babbling, sputtering, and/or giggling maniacally in search of being comedic. Cavanagh’s easy assurance dealing with the women in his life, old and new, makes for a welcome contrast to Graham’s over exertions even if it does point up her shortcomings all the more glaringly. The same thing happens with Molly Shannon as Sam’s requisite wacky sidekick, this one obsessed with her flabby thighs and with Oprah. It is as though Shannon takes on her slight shoulders the Herculean task of saving this flick single-handed, a sentiment worthy of respect, even if it fizzles despite her considerable talents. As for Sissy Spacek as Sam’s therapist with a penchant for bowling alleys and rock climbing, and Alan Cumming as the cab driver who falls for Sam and always seems to be nearby (which would also be considered stalking in any other context). Both, particularly Cumming, are subjected to degradations neither deserves and that are painful to watch.
GRAY MATTERS is the sort of crushing disappointment that only gets worse as the running time progresses. It strives for meaning and relevancy only to come up with piffle and dreck, leaving the audience exhausted and demoralized.
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