"Me and You and Everyone We Know" (2005)

At a glance, Me and You and Everyone We Know sounds like a quirk-fest, a series of scenes of whimsey and eccentricity that exist nowhere in the real world. We see this time and again in independent films that mistake quirks for depth and complexity. But in writer-director Miranda July's film, quirks are more destructive than endearing. Every character is frightened of being themselves. They have opened themselves up to people before and they have been hurt. In fact, they've done this so many times that they're forced to take deeply transgressive actions to feel any sort of connection. July has her characters skirt the lines of sexual deviancy and yet we never feel anything but sympathy for them. July empathizes with her characters, and so do we. The film strikes a daringly fragile tone that could be disastrous in the wrong hands -- warm, inviting, maddening, enchanting. As said, there is quirkiness here, and in characters who would be manic-pixie dream archetypes if they didn't seem so lonely and desperate, and like they were barely keeping it together. July grounds the disparate yet interconnected stories in a strong central theme. The film understands the difficulty of making connections, and coming into our own, in a relationship or as a young person. Being inside the film is like wrapping oneself up in a cozy blanket: the broken world is still out there, but there is still a chance to not feel so lonely and confused. This shouldn't work, but it's delicate and wise, and aware of its cuteness.

Grade: ★★★