Styled like a French infidelity comedy that overemphasizes and celebrates subplots, If I Were You feels like It would have been a delightful stroll had it cut 30 minutes from its unnecessary long duration. Joan Carr-Wiggin’s film is poorly constructed as it fails to understand that, treating its characters’ sorrow and triumphs in an overly serious manner needs strong dramatic efforts which ultimately cripples the comedy. The romantic chaos is set into motion by Madelyn’s surprise of discovering her husband, Paul, having an affair with young hot Lucy at a restaurant. When Madelyn confronts Paul, his side of the party ignites a fight that causes Lucy to attempt to commit suicide by hanging. This automatic motion from Madelyn saves her from death. Even more absurd, Madelyn makes friends with Lucy and artificially comes up with an arrangement where they would inform each other before making any significant romantic decisions.
The scenario strikes one as absurd at first aided by the fact that Madelyn boozes perpetually is a coping strategy that Harden self-servingly spins to sass and eye-roll at the same time. However, as showcased in an early scene where Madelyn is sobbing softly on her porch, If I Were You seeks far more than whirligig comedy it attempts to give its multitude of characters a three-dimensional arc. That aim weighs the material down into lethargy because it demands extending the action to utterly unreasonable proportions, featuring Madelyn accidentally being cast in a leading role in a community production of King Lear with aspiring actress Lucy’s Fool.
Madelyn’s tale is filled with a plethora of conflicts, not all of which are humorous. They range from getting Paul to think she is cheating to Gary, the co-worker who is “interested” in her, to Valier Mahaffe’s suspicious wife, to Aidan Quinn the charming stranger with whom she has sex at the nursing home where her mother dies. Carr-Wiggin’s attempt at weaving them all together overwhelms the lightness that should be presented in the story. This is one of the many problems, alongside shallow notions of loyalty and mortality, that need to be addressed in too many conversations. The numerous sides the woman has to care for, unfortunately, stow the joy in these deeper issues. How is this my life? is a look of exasperation that carries more than one particularly bumpy scene through its rougher patches. Her supporting cast, alas, is functional at best far shrewder would have been to pair her opposite a genre pro like Daniel Auteuil.
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