Celebrating Elaine May with ‘The Heartbreak Kid’

It feels cruel that if you search for “The Heartbreak Kid” on Google, the Farrelly Brothers lethargic 2007 comedy comes up first, rather than the 1972 Elaine May film that it is (somewhat) based on. It’s a familiar bugbear. SEO trends tend to prioritise newer work. Further, May’s sophomore film – and arguably her best successful – has been increasingly hard to find. It was released on DVD in the nineties, but copies have been increasingly hard to come by since. Metrograph, in New York, hosted a rare 35mm print of the film to celebrate the release of a new biography on May, Carrie Courogen’s “Miss May Does Not Exist”. More than 50 years after its release, the rhythms of this romantic comedy of errors are not the same as the sensibilities of contemporary romance, or comedy. Instead, the screening provided a welcome reminder of what sharp and excavating comedy can look like; of how laugh after laugh in an emphatic comedy could be punctuated with thoughtfulness as well as disarming depth; of how Elaine May’s skills as a filmmaker are worthy of the timely memorialisation of Courogen’s book; and of the essentiality of “The Heartbreak Kid” which, in its seductive slyness, is one of the hallmarks of 1970s comedy. There are no heroes in “The Heartbreak Kid”, only people. Charles Grodin’s Lenny Cantrow is our not-quite-a-hero here. The opening sequence runs through a quick montage from date to flirtation to marriage as Lenny settles down with his very earnest wife Lila (May’s daughter, Jeannie Berlin). They embark on their honeymoon less than ten minutes into the film, and the domestic bliss is very short-lived. Little by little we stay in Lenny’s perspective as he grows increasingly dismayed at the habits of his wife – her off-tone singing voice, her enthusiasm for her double-egg salad sandwich, her need for reassurance in bed. By the time their road-trip from New York ends at the hotel in Miami, and the appearance of the remote and glamorous college-student Kelly (Cybil Shepherd) the stage is set for Lenny to jettison one relationship in pursuit of another. That pursuit is complicated by Kelly’s domineering father (Eddie Albert) and from there the comedic complications only grow. Even for film enthusiasts, much of May’s work is not as explicitly known as her male contemporaries. One of the thrills of Courogen’s book is the way it functions as both a biography of a great artist, and an essential book on filmmaking and the creative process. May’s four films get chapter focus, as do other creative events in her life. And the chapter on “The Heartbreak Kid”, just as the ones on her other films, emerge as vital cinematic knowledge for readers, even those who might be new to May. One compelling section of the chapter on the film talks of the dynamics of May’s working relationship with the screenwriter, playwright Neil Simon. One of the most prolific late-century American playwrights, Simon had so much cachet in Hollywood at the time that he was able to wield power more than most screenwriters – insisting that no line in the film could be changed without his approval. But comedy is more than words, and watching “The Heartbreak Kid” on a big screen in its 35mm glory. There’s a lingering effect that’s central to the best of May’s work. Her early theatrical sketches with Mike Nichols, before they both achieved Hollywood fame, would draw great mileage from letting a punchline settle for a few seconds longer than you expect. It’s a quality that moves over into the comedic rhythms of her film work, too. As Lenny devises increasingly ridiculous lies to explain his absence to Lila, as he seeks out Kelly, May will refuse to leave a scene too fast. We stay in the absurdity and the discomfort. Later on, when the film changes tracks and Lenny begins to woo Kelly’s father for her hand, the lingering moments become even more charged. In some of the sharpest moments in “The Heartbreak Kid”, when Lenny’s unctuousness sits in sharp contrast to Albert’s circumspect father, a foolish statement lingers for a beat – emphasising the comedic absurdity but also the potential nuances for more. Courogen writes thoughtfully in her chapter on the film of the way May, “lingers in the silences, refusing to snap through lines at a rapid-fire setup/punchline pace. How she forces the audience to squirm, dealing in voyeuristic long take after long take, camera close, refusing to look away”. It’s a right, and sharp, assessment of the quality and one which reminds me most of what May, and other valuable American filmmakers who developed in the theatre, bring to cinema. The voyeuristic quality feels like a central quality of a filmmaker who knows the power of letting