Reviewed by Tim Wong

THOUGH of comparatively sane disposition, Junebug’s Ashley Johnsten shares a certain commonality with 3 Women’s Pinky Rose: both diminutive, redheaded Southern Belles, each happen upon a thoroughly modern woman who is to become the object of their obsession. In the Robert Altman film, Sissy Spacek’s idolization of Millie Lammoreaux goes beyond appreciation, culminating in a spell of attempted suicide and identity theft. Smitten with new sister-in-law Madeleine – a high-society art dealer visiting her low-brow in-laws for the first time – Ashley’s enthusiasm for her gal pal’s cosmo chic doesn’t quite pledge her to the alumnae of cinema’s most fanatical females (Sandra Bernhard being the queen bee of that sorority), but she’s got a screw loose all the same. Not unlike Pinky’s eagerness for all things childishly mundane – idle wheelchairs, miniature golf, bubbles in soda – Ashley’s inner little girl, of coltish fascination with African merekats and toenail polish, makes for a somewhat unbalanced mother-to-be, a woman on the verge of something, one minute adorable, the next downright irritating.


As excitable as she is expecting, Ashley smothers Madeleine like a Barbie doll, imitating her Euro double-pecks and strategically placed ‘fucks’, all to the drone of incessant chatter and impending pregnancy woes. She has found her role model; we have found our Oscar nominee. A sprightly Amy Adams ignites the role, providing the single spark in Phil Morrison’s modest, delectable feature debut. Elsewhere, the cast is uniformly droll, conspiring in their introversion to tonally offset Adams’ sugary girlishness with uncomfortable silences, mute culture clashes, and a pervading deadpan domesticity. Scott Wilson as the father-in-law is a model of austere, southern masculinity; Alessandro Nivola is the newly-wed husband, about to introduce his prize wife to the family after the fact; fish-out-of-water Madeleine is played by a sleek Embeth Davidtz; while the wind has clearly not changed for Benjamin McKenzie, who as Ashley’s sad-sap boyfriend, still sports the same vacant facial expression last seen in The O.C.

For long-suffering Ashley, it soon becomes apparent that whatever Madeleine has, she doesn’t; admiration turns to despair; and back again. Morrison prods away at this, and other unspoken anomalies, from outwardly awkward social interaction, to more deep-rooted discord, whether between the South and the North, or families and loved ones. Not much else is going on here, but it’s so well fielded by all that the rather overused quotable of an ‘indie gem’ is in this instance both veritable and earned. And while Adams’ caffeinated performance is at the heart of the film, she is not its most eccentric talking point. That honour goes to artist David Wark (Frank Hoyt Taylor), whose undiscovered works are the ulterior motive behind Madeleine’s visit to the South. Scouting new talent for her Chicago gallery, he is an exceptional find. When not sprouting biblical sermons at random, Wark articulates the symbolism behind his paintings: dog heads, computers, scrotums, giant erections... basically Keith Haring does the Civil War and then some.