'Filth' for those who read join-the-dots books. Porn without pleasure.

Rating: 4/10 (6 November 2013)

Don Jon is Joseph Gordon-Levitt's feature debut as writer/director/star, and it's a bold endeavour. Technically speaking, it's a success; his vision is clear, the editing works, the style is engaging and there's something of a story in there. The trouble is, Don Jon is billed as a comedy/drama/romance but, whilst there is certainly plenty of drama across the 90 minutes, there was little in the way of laughter generated in the screening I attended and the romance is scant enough to be overlooked, particularly as boredom sets in long before anything genuinely romantic occurs.
There's sex, there's porn and there's plenty of aggression in Don Jon, because Gordon-Levitt's film is about Jon (Gordon-Levitt) who, after his family, his home, his car, his church, his boys and his girls, cares about pornography more than anything.
Scratch that, Jon is obsessed with porn. He needs it like Lindsay Lohan needs coke (allegedly). The way Jon sees it, no matter how good the sex with a real, fleshy girl, it's not as good as losing himself in his porn. Every day. Multiple times every day. And then, across a nightclub floor, Jon spies Barbara (Scarlett Johansson), the most beautiful 'thing' he's ever seen, and it's love at first sight.
Except it isn't love. It's the possession of one unpleasant person by another unpleasant person; though who owns whom is open to question.
It's difficult to like Don Jon as a film because there is precious little to like within the film. The characters are largely unlikeable caricatures, chief amongst them both Jon and Barbara. They prompt mild amusement in a don't-let-them-anywhere-near-me kind of way but, when you get down to it, they're just not nice. They are hypocritical, grotesque, aggressive creatures that we gawp at rather than identify with. Put it this way, if you can identify with them, it's time to take a long hard look in the mirror.
Don't misunderstand; both Gordon-Levitt and Johansson play their parts well. They are as entirely believable as they are disagreeable and one has to resist the urge to reach into the screen to be equally unpleasant to them. I just want more from a film than good performances.
There is humour in Don Jon, though it is mild and subtle to the point of translucence. Brie Larson as Jon's sister, Monica, is amusing as the largely mute sibling who is permanently attached to her cell phone, and her moment in the spotlight, though spotted a mile off, allows one's facial muscles to move at last.
Julianne Moore is on good form here as slightly damaged, partly cuckoo Esther, a fellow student in Jon's night class who might modify his behavior. Tony Danza also mildly entertains as Jon Senior, the father who berates his carbon copy son, while Glenne Headly merely annoys as the hysterical, wailing, nagging mother, Angela.
Gordon-Levitt has understandably placed himself firmly at the centre of Don Jon and presumably enjoyed the process of creating for himself a persona that thinks with his cock, revolves his life around his cock and behaves constantly like an almighty cock. Top marks for playing it well, but perhaps next time give us something to actually enjoy. It doesn't have to be 'nice'; god knows, I wouldn't want to meet Hannibal Lecter, but both Brian Cox (as Lecktor) and Anthony Hopkins gave us a monster we could enjoy.
And, mild spoiler alert, when 'redemption' does arrive, it just isn't believable. Really? That sex-driven, angry, fountain of testosterone would change so comprehensively and fall in love with? What? I'm not buying it.
There's a fun touch to the editing, cutting between the mania of Jon's porn addiction existence, his religious hypocrisy and his personal life beyond porn sites, and the repetition creates an enjoyable predictability in a Reggie Perrin way, though without the anticipation or humour.
Don Jon is an adult film that presumably wants to shock and offend Daily Mail readers wherever they may be barricaded, but it falls short of the skill, panache and artistry of last month's Filth. It's like comparing a pimped-up Ferrari with a graffiti-splattered ghetto wreck.
And, on a final annoyance, the foley artist needs to spend more time on research. Tissue does not make that sound when it lands in a metal bin. Trust me, I've tried eight times today and I'm working up to my ninth!
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