‘There’s, like, all these weird things in the universe, you know?” is how Molly, an implausible and newly unemployed astrophysicist, summarizes a disquisition about a star.
What prompts the speech, or indeed what prompted this film, is a mystery. Certainly it was not the desire to tell a story, as there is none. It couldn’t be the urge to show characters in a slice of life, since the characters amount to no more than vibrating vocal cords. And the talk — about inheritances, parents, tattoos, an interminable anecdote about a fart — is unending.
“Molly’s Theory of Relativity” is anti-cinema. All hope for any plot atrophies as Molly and her husband discuss their possible move to Norway with the wit and passion of a representative reading a tribute to Calvin Coolidge into the Congressional Record.
Even startlingly explicit sex (the two leads are married to each other) does the audience no good because even when they’re getting it on, these people never stop talking.
Director Jeff Lipsky is also a film distributor with a commendable record of bringing excellent foreign films to the US, including the granddaddy of all talkathons, “My Dinner With André.” That was all the way back in 1981; Lipsky’s latest film suggests it’s time to seek other influences.