If there's one thing I hate, it's writing an authentic film review (that's why I prefer to write film reviews about films I've never seen). But if there's one thing I hate more than writing a film review, it's when I have to write about a film I hate. Unfortunately, that's the case with Me and You and Everyone We Know. It must be the fact that I'm an old crank, but when a film gets glowing reviews by leading critics like Roger Ebert, when it wins at both the Cannes and Sundance Film Festivals, I sort of expect that it might be at least entertaining; maybe even good.

I didn't get what I expected. Instead, the film reminded me of some of the regrettable 1970s drivel I had to sit through thirty years ago. Poor writing and rank amateurism, syruped over with long musical interludes no doubt intended to be "artsy" -- in the hope you either won't notice there's nothing there, or (better yet) you might be distracted into thinking it's great art. Before I was even twenty minutes into the film, I began to ask myself who on earth could possibly have written such insipidly boring, profoundly uninspiring dialogue.

In the interest of fairness, I should point out that I don't share the stated philosophy of the director/writer/star, Miranda July:

The movie is the product of someone brought up in a household that revered authenticity ­— to a fault, she implies — and who has since devoted her life’s work to questioning its value. “I was raised with this fear of fakeness,” says July over lunch on the patio of a Beverly Hills hotel, “this fear that I might become fake. But what is fake? Like the bird picture in the tree at the end, does fake really matter if we’re really able to connect? That’s the human condition.”

More about the Miranda July here. (In addition to her new career as a director, she's a musician and blogger.)

Again, I'm sorry to be displaying hostility, and I know my geriatric jadedness is showing. But years ago I lived with a performance artist, and I knew some of San Francisco's legends before their notoriety. Not that they weren't often very talented, very nice people. (How I'd love to drop a few names and tell a few stories, but natural caution and legal training forbids.)

The problem is, I never liked their art, but I didn't want to hurt their feelings, so I engaged in my usual self-censorship. (An excellent way to hurt the feelings of yourself and others, by the way. Of course had I said what I thought that would have been hurtful too. Which would not have been OK. OK?)

Anyway, had I taken the time to check out the author's performance art, I might have saved the time and money spent on the film. Well, I did this morning, and here's her description of Love Diamond:

Love Diamond In this full-length performance piece, Miranda July, with the accompaniment of composer Zac Love, fully utilizes the complex circuit of language that she has built over the course of her performing, moviemaking, recording career -- a circuit defined by its charged transmissions and sharp dialogues. These dialogues take place not only between characters (performed simultaneously by July), but between mediums. Machines and humans speak: video talks to audio talks to slides talk to audience members talk to each other.

One such technical dialogue begins with a weapons training video. July takes the stage as both the voice of the instructor (embodied on video) and the voice and body of the pupil. This scene continually morphs between live performance and video, a movement that echoes the transitions of a woman who ultimately chooses her disguise/weapon in favor of her true identity. The scene closes with a piece of video that imitates the classic "end of a movie" sentimentality, as if everything has been resolved. In fact, the integrity of life has been called into question, and all answers are supplied by lethal weapons.

Though cyclical, Love Diamond is never predictable. July's language is casual and mundane in one moment and calculated in the next. Zac Love's audio landscapes and effects heighten the performance's cinematic quality and situate Love Diamond in the present or near future. In some scenes Love defines territories for July to enter, in other moments she adds meanings that are in opposition to her character. Their polishedaudio/visual/literal language, combined with July's subtle and mesmerizing rendering of her cast of "women who will be alone forever"potentizes and sustains all anxieties.

Throughout the piece there is only one pure cause for hope: the Love Diamond. July carefully weaves in the concept of a glowing, glittering structure that just may be attainable and might even make everything ok.The Love Diamond is described to us not in July's own voice but by members of the audience As a result, July's characters are removed from the promise of the Love Diamond. It is a hope for connection that lies just outside the periphery of the stage. We can only deduce that the glowing, perfect structure is the evening itself-- a connection built by performer, composer, technology and audience.

EVERYTHING IS NOT OK, OK? IT NEVER WILL BE OK, OK?

Give me even a shlock war movie over this any day, OK?

Look, I realize these are matters of taste, and in matters of taste there can be no disagreement. It's just not my taste, that's all.

Save your money, unless you want to think the country is falling apart and want to understand why.

There's not a hero or a villain, nor anyone with whom I could identify. Instead (except for an especially brilliant little boy who fakes being an online pervert), the characters are mediocre in the extreme. Socialist realism, the glorification of the mundane (sure to make elitist audiences feel "in touch with the common man"), and copies of copies of Diego Rivera murals all come to mind. If you want heroes, villains, handsome lead males, beautiful lead women, or real action look elsewhere. (As to "action," even the scene in which the lead male character sets himself on fire manages to be about as exciting as a documentary I saw on tongue splitting. I mean, how is it a great revelation to know we've been increasingly out of touch with pain since the invention of anesthesia?)

I am not OK, and you are not OK. If you want to see the film, well, that's OK with me. I'm just too paranoid about the beautification of mediocrity, as it threatens my optimistic gloom.

The film aside, I enjoyed reading the director's views on blogging:

You yourself have a blog now, and then in the film itself there's a hilarious running story around computers and instant messaging. I was wondering if you had a particular interest in the way technology affects society?

It's funny because I'm actually pretty non-technologically inclined, and in fact when I started the blog recently I asked my web designer, "What are all these ...'comments'? What are these people...?" And she said, "Uh, Miranda, that's what a blog is - people write back." "Oh!" I had no idea that was part of the deal. [laughs] So I hadn't actually read blogs. I'm just starting to realize what the form is, and that everyone talks about themselves, pretty much. It's hard to do that and already be a bit of a public figure. When does it become too much? I'm trying to figure out a way to do it.

So here's a truly tedious tidbit about myself: I blew my big chance as a performance artist when I turned down a role I was offered as a "fishy." I was asked if I would dress as a fish and lay on the floor while sticking my head through a draping of fake water, while being fed by the artist who would later "net" me.

No. No! NO!

A career-ending mistake.

(I've been an anti-performance art bigot ever since.)