This movie hit me as everything that's bad about indie film, and none of the things that are good. Every character has to be "quirky." Their "quirks" reveal their "pain" and/or "loneliness." Everyone stares out of windows, forlornly. Sex is always awkward and uncomfortable. The photography is extremely composed and stylized, to the point of absolute meaninglessness. The dialogue is packed with pretentious, quasi-existential one-liners that no one would ever say in reality, and which just hang in the air, all "Zen-like." Or, in this case, all "bad fart-like." Fragile connections are made. Tentative tolerance and/or simple curiosity stand in place of real romance. Need stands in place of love. If this is all the Pitchfork crowd can hope for, no wonder they're so fucking jaded. All this shit is, is little hipster neophytes tinkering around with the meaning of life and love, except they have no idea where to find either, because their heads are so far up their asses. Get in touch with your fucking hearts first, braniac dorkwad assholes. Then, like, smell some flowers or something before you try to tell me about love. There is one funny scene wherein two nerdy black kids, in an internet sex chat, suggest "pooping back and forth"—but even this is beaten into the ground by being turned into a running gag. The emotional and intellectual ineptitude of this movie is stunning. Garden State worked because it was genuine and vulnerable. Me and You is about as genuine as my prosthetic neck.
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