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Yeh, I know -- you're quivering with excitement. Well, *The Secret Lives of Dentists* will not upset your expectations: it's solidly made but essentially unimaginative, truthful but dull. It concerns the story of a married couple who happen to be dentists and who share the same practice (already a recipe for trouble: if it wasn't for our separate work-lives, we'd all ditch our spouses out of sheer irritation). Campbell Scott, whose mustache and demeanor don't recall Everyman so much as Ned Flanders from *The Simpsons*, is the mild-mannered, uber-Dad husband, and Hope Davis is the bored-stiff housewife who channels her frustrations into amateur opera. One night, as Dad & the daughters attend one of Davis' performances, he discovers that his wife is channeling her frustrations into more than just singing: he witnesses his wife kissing and flirting with the director of opera. (One nice touch: we never see the opera-director's face.) Dreading the prospect of instituting the proceedings for separation, divorce, and custody hearings -- profitable only to the lawyers -- Scott chooses to pretend ignorance of his wife's indiscretions.
Already, the literate among you are starting to yawn: ho-hum, another story about the Pathetic, Sniveling Little Cuckold. But Rudolph, who took the story from a Jane Smiley novella, hopes that the wellworn-ness of the material will be compensated for by a series of flashy, postmodern touches. For instance, one of Scott's belligerent patients (Denis Leary, kept relatively -- and blessedly -- in check) will later become a sort of construction of the dentist's imagination, emerging as a Devil-on-the-shoulder advocate for the old-fashioned masculine virtues ("Dump the b---h!", etc.). When not egged-on by his imaginary new buddy, Scott is otherwise tormented by fantasies that include his wife engaged in a three-way with two of the male dental-assistants who work in their practice. It's not going too far to say that this movie is *Eyes Wide Shut* for Real People (or Grown-Ups, at least). Along those lines, Campbell Scott and Hope Davis are certainly recognizable human beings as compared to the glamourpuss pair of Cruise and Kidman. Further, the script for *Secret Lives* is clearly more relevant than Kubrick's. As proof, I offer the depiction of the dentists' children, particularly the youngest one who is about 3 or 4 years old, and whose main utterance is "Dad! Dad! Dad! Dad! Dad! DAD!!!" This is Family Life, all right, with all its charms.
The movie would make an interesting double-bill with *Kramer vs. Kramer*, as well. One can easily trace the Feminization of the American Male from 1979 to 2003. In this movie, Dad is the housewife as in *Kramer*, but he is in no way flustered by the domestic role, unlike Dustin Hoffman, who was too manly to make toast. Here, Scott gets all the plumb chores, such as wiping up the children's vomit, cooking, cleaning, taking the kids to whatever inane after-school activity is on the docket. And all without complaint. (And without directorial commentary. It's just taken for granted.)
The film has virtues, mostly having to do with verisimilitude. However, it's dragged down from greatness by its insistence on trendy distractions, which culminate in a long scene where a horrible five-day stomach flu makes the rounds in the household. We must endure pointless fantasy sequences, initiated by the imaginary ringleader Leary. Whose existence, by the way, is finally reminiscent of the Brad Pitt character in *Fight Club*. And this finally drives home the film's other big flaw: lack of originality. In this review, I realize it's been far too easy to reference many other films. Granted, this film is an improvement on most of them, but still. *The Secret Lives of Dentists* is worth seeing, but don't get too excited about it. (Not that you were all that excited, anyway. I guess.)


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