Director: Nico Fulton Lavachek
Writer: Nico Fulton Lavachek
Cast: Jared Treviño, Cambrey Watson, Alexander Haug, Kelsie McDonald, Loren Cronk
Running time: 1hr 40mins
I’m well into my sixth year of analysing independent movies for Indy Film Library. We’re approaching 500 reviews. Over that stretch, I’ve noticed things I never really considered about the art form – common threads and recurring themes which crop up in the wilds beyond the studio system. The most depressing, and my least favourite generally, is the call of the void which urges independent artists to imitate big-budget blockbusters, but with a fraction of the budget.
Amid the flat and unengaging opening of producer Mason Bosworth and director Nico Fulton Lavachek’s return to IFL’s pages, you would be forgiven for thinking he had given in to that siren’s song. On the face of it, The Chemists is two of the things which Hollywood loves most: it is a romantic comedy; and it is a film about Hollywood. The opening sees Jack (Jared Treviño) struggling to express himself before a woman standing breathless in the rain. As the tearful pair resolve to go their separate ways, a crackling electric voice calls “cut” – and the illusion shatters.
It emerges that actually emotional exchange was just as uncomfortable for both performers as it was for us watching, with Jack’s opposite number especially keen to draw a line under it and head for home. Jack is less desperate to get off set, but not out of love for his craft or a sense of chemistry with his fellow performers – rather, because he is desperate not to go to his day-job; a deserted cinema where the minimal audiences have a tendency to use the dark and secluded venue for their own ‘romance’.
A horrendously stilted scene ensues, in which a colleague – twirling her hair and making uncomfortable amounts of eye-contact with Jack – suggests he should go to check on the rutting in one of the theatres. It is unclear whether the actress has been asked to act as though she is inviting him to do something similar, or to behave as though she is high as a kite, but either way, she is thoroughly off-putting. Unfortunately, Jack has all the charisma of one of the used condoms he soon finds himself fishing out of a popcorn bucket – so we don’t get any lines from him helping us understand how to feel about this scenario.
But just as the suffering young actor looks like he’s at his limit, a call from his agent intervenes. He’s had the offer of a life-time. All he has to do to secure it, is to spend a weekend away with the object of his on-screen affections; to prove they have the necessary chemistry. The deal is confirmed by a meeting with the overly sunny casting director (Kelsie McDonald) and pretentious, archetypal bastard of a director (Loren Cronk). In the scene, in which Jack continues to bungle every chance at exhibiting a personality, we are also introduced to his love-interest Mae (Cambrey Watson) – a household name who immediately renders him starstruck – and his love-rival Calvin (a gleefully evil Alexander Haug), who is also in the frame for the leading role, and is very clearly willing to play dirty from the outset.
Everything seems set up to deliver us a by-the-numbers rom-com, in which a will-they-won’t-they story ticks all the boxes of a mainstream film, without the budget, while painstakingly avoiding any ruffled feathers among the studios who the artists are indirectly auditioning for – reaffirming the magic of Hollywood in the process. Except this is very much not the film that Lavachek and his cast deliver.
Mae is a former child-star, desperate to be appreciated as a human being rather than a Disney Channel character she hated playing over a decade ago. Jack is the grandson of a Hollywood darling from the black-and-white era, who has failed to live up to her glorious legacy. Both of them are drowning in the past, in historic narratives beyond their control, which have determined who they should be, and how they should live. Beyond this, they also bond over the grotesquery of their surroundings. The fake platitudes and forced smiles which are so ready to give way to a barrage of anger, the moment they stop living up to the expectations of the imperious customer. They both want to earn a living in this industry, but neither of them wants this career to be who they are.
In these scenes, the superficiality of Lavachek’s earlier writing utterly dissipates, and it feels as though we might be watching an entirely different film. The interesting thing, however, is that the story continues to hit on many of the same beats we would recognise from more generic rom-coms. At this point, the decidedly anti-Hollywood sentiment which has underlined an apparently blossoming romance also becomes the key hurdle for the relationship. After all, Jack becomes increasingly aware that Mae is an extremely skilful actor. Given his gawking earlier performances, compared to her calculated star performances, we have also long been calling this into question.
In terms of Lavachek’s script, I have to give top credit for this. Because it utterly led me down the path on multiple occasions. At first it gave me the impression this would be a conventional, tacky romantic comedy. Then it convinced me this would be a knowing, meta rom-com in which the same thing would be delivered, but through a veneer of cynicism to make it more palatable to a grump like me. But the concluding segment of the film finds new and satisfying ways to subvert those expectations too.
In the end, The Chemists almost feels like a boxing film, as much as a romance. Everything is building to that final confrontation, where our underdog protagonists leave it all on the canvas. And in this final, gruelling battle, in the presence of the director who put them through emotional torment for art and profit – neither of which are good enough reasons – against all the odds, they land every punch. Treviño and Watson deliver towering performances in these closing exchanges – and that highlights just how good they were when they were trying to appear like they were not great actors, too.
It’s a difficult film to write about beyond that, because I don’t want to give the game away, but I also want to ensure that everyone sitting down to watch The Chemists a fair crack. Because it is good – possibly too good – at pretending to be things that it is not. But when it finally gets around to unveiling what it is, much like its two leading lights, it is nothing short of brilliant.
With that being said, however, there are some rough-around-the-edges areas where viewers will just have to be patient. Because there are components of this film which are very skilfully made to seem underwhelming, it has been tricky to fit the notes pertaining to those moments in until the end of the review. So, sorry if this sounds like a bit of a downer.
Perhaps the most gratingly consistent thing which bothered me here was the sound. The tinny replacement dialogue recorded in post during the first film scene – which I thought was introduced to help underline the shift from the faux-rom-com to reality – never really leaves us, and takes some of the sheen off production.
At the same time, sometimes Lavachek has so much going on that he forgets or neglects the obvious. Jack’s full name is Jack Russell – which some boorish characters make woofing sounds at him for. But then it emerges that he cannot eat chocolate, which would have been grounds for a slightly more nuanced chuckle between him and Mae in their first evening together.
And then there is the scene where the pair go to a strange L.A. club. Utterly deserted, the place is supposed to give revellers the experience of a prom night – something which neither Jack nor Mae had much luck with in their youths. But the place is run by an eccentric German, whose accent comes and goes, as he hurriedly imparts all kinds of wisdom to them about the magic of dancing. The lines are not particularly funny, and feel like they are overtly imitating a boilerplate rom-com, where an older character teaches the protagonist how to open themselves up through the joy of dancing with a lover. It’s a grating scene that does not gel with the supposed realism of the film’s mid-section – and the deliberate air of weirdness Lavachek cultivates for this scene makes it feel like an in-joke.
That moment, along with some of the moments Jack spends at his cum-soaked cinema, might have been shaved off this 100-minute run-time, which feels just a little long in the grand scheme of things. Even so, though, I’d heartily recommend this film – and can’t wait to see what this exciting team of artists produces next, inside or outside the studio system.
Making a romantic comedy about Hollywood to satirise and dissect both the art of the rom-com, and the studio system, is a complicated vision, especially for a first foray into feature filmmaking. To that end, we should forgive Lavachek and his team for the few loose ends which got away from them in this incredibly ambitious production – which still manages to deliver on most of its lofty goals. I feel genuinely guilty that I doubted any of them in the early stages of the film – but I’m also thrilled that they proved me so utterly wrong.