Unmade Beds

The recent blurring of the line between cinematic fiction and non-fiction is unquestionably intriguing, but I think that some part of me must fundamentally object to the deliberate obliteration of that line, because watching the four "characters" in Unmade Beds (all of whom have turned to NY's personals scene in an attempt to find love) flawlessly recite monologues about their pathetic lives made me acutely uncomfortable. A scene in which one of the quartet breaks down crying on a park bench is especially troubling; I wasn't sure how to react, because I had no idea whether or not her tears were genuine. It's as if I wear one pair of glasses for fictional narratives and another pair of glasses for documentaries, and Nicholas Barker's film, while perceptive and affecting, left me unable to determine which pair of glasses I was supposed to put on, and without glasses my vision's maybe 20/500, and so I found the entire experience...well, really darn blurry. Optional. (M. D'Angelo)