Till death do us part

In movies, married couples rarely fart spontaneously. If ever, it’s done in service of a gag, or to make a point, such as in the recent Judd Apatow movie This Is 40. There’s a scene where Paul Rudd lets loose in bed, and wife Leslie Mann calls him on it. That’s sort of real. But it doesn’t begin to touch the ordinary, everyday release of gases and other bodily functions that most couples endure, just to remain couples.

In Michael Haneke’s Oscar-winning Amour, the elderly couple never farts. I actually found myself thinking it would have added an extra layer of realism to this already gripping portrait of senior devotion if they did. Or maybe just a couple of laughs.

In Hitchcock, a portrait of the marriage between the Master of Suspense and his wife Alma (Helen Mirren), there’s not only no farting, they sleep in separate beds. Presumably they are too British to fart in one another’s presence.

Now that I’ve exhausted that subject, I will take up my point: the way marriage is depicted as a sort of marathon in recent movies. That may sound discouraging, but it’s the kind of marathon wherein both parties usually reach the finish line. Sure, Hollywood’s depiction of marriage may fly in the face of real-life statistics — 50 percent of unions end in divorce, fewer people are even getting married in the First World, except for gay couples whose stats are still going up. But the challenge is to depict the reality of marital life without turning off all those singletons out there, or insulting the intelligence of real married couples.

This Is 40 starts out like fingernails running down a chalkboard: Leslie Mann, playing Debbie, the same character she did in Knocked Up (and also director Apatow’s wife), continually whines about turning 40, even as she denies it, insisting she’s 38. The level of whining is so high-pitched, I actually found myself yelling at the screen: “B*tch! Wait till you hit 47!” (Admit-tedly, this was not a reasonable reaction to watching a fictional character on a TV screen. But it was real.)

Pete, the Paul Rudd character, isn’t much help. He’s also hitting 40, and seeks escape from his suburban prison in little passive-aggressive ways, like playing Bejeweled on his iPad on the toilet for hours on end, or signing up long-in-the-tooth, critically acclaimed ‘80s songwriters for his fledgling record label.

Both Pete and Debbie are examples of our generation’s quest for Eternal Adolescence. Instead of the mythical Fountain of Youth, today’s yupsters cling to more realistic means of restoring vitality: they use technology, or reach for Viagra, or buy high-tech bikes, or dwell in nostalgia for their “golden years,” which were supposedly the ‘80s. It’s hard to feel too sympathetic for Pete and Debbie, because they have a really nice house, a swimming pool, and lots of space for their kids to mope and whine in. But at some point they do elicit our understanding, because they are just another married couple trying to figure out what they have left in common. Apatow’s ending is a little Hollywood pat, but at least it’s funny.

And Pete and Debbie do display some truthful hallmarks of modern marriage: they share a common language (swearing, in typical Apatow fashion), and they’re willing to go inappropriately ballistic on any kid or parent who bullies their child. Circling the wagons is a big part of marriage.

Aging couples are everywhere in the media these days. There’s Tilda Swinton and David Bowie in the latter’s new video, The Stars (Are Out Tonight), playing an anemic older couple who do the groceries together and chuckle over celebrity gossip tabloids at the checkout line. They’re haunted by a doppelganger younger couple living next door, who pull the oldies’ strings like marionettes. It’s an astute take on society’s eternal fascination with celebrity and youth, and a disturbing portrait of marital strain. When you see Tilda Swinton wielding a turkey-carving knife in your direction, it might be time to rethink this “till death do us part” thing.

Then there’s Richard Linklater’s recent Before Midnight (not shown here yet), which takes on the continuing story of Jesse and Celine, the two young lovers from Before Sunrise who, two decades later, are (shockingly) older, yet no less prone to gab.

And then we have Anthony Hopkins and Mirren in Hitchcock, one of two biopics focusing on the director’s marriage, one in which the wife is more than just a support network: she helps run the set of Psycho when Hitch is besieged by inner demons or the flu; she rewrites pulpy material to ensure it’s more passable; and she gives up her screenwriting dreams to assist her more-famous hubby at every turn. Mirren is a steely counterpart to Hopkins’ own monolithic reserve. They take on Paramount executives together, and on occasion enjoy a laugh, a light touch, a delicious meal and shared memories. Yet Hitchcock never goes beneath the surface of their marriage to mine the director’s actual quirks. Rather, Alma provides a soothing balm that allows Hitch to nurture his demons for the rest of his twilight career. Her only consolation? He praises her at the Oscars, and says she’s the best “ice blonde” he’ll ever find.

(Though in reality he did focus an unhealthy obsession on Tippi Hedren for a few pictures after Psycho became a hit.)

Finally, there’s Amour, which in true Haneke fashion, shows us a bit more than we’d like to see of reality. Anne (Emmanuelle Riva) and Georges (Jean-Louis Trintignant) are content in their twilight years, watching concerts together, enjoying meals and reading newspapers, until Anne has a series of strokes and Georges must decide what to do about it. Of the recent “till death do us part” movies, this one goes deeper into what connects two people over a lifetime: as Anne slips away, Georges finds he’s losing the only friend and confidant he has left; while family (Isabelle Huppert) and the State offer conventional remedies — hospitals, nursing homes — Georges opts to go it alone. It’s a final journey, and not a pretty one at times, though there is comfort to be taken in the fact that, in Georges’ last moments of reverie, the couple do leave their apartment together, still civil and eternally caring toward one another.