The Dinner

It seems strange that Herman Koch’s The Dinner, a 2009 Dutch novel that seemed deeply European in its sensibilities when it appeared in this country in 2013, should be made into a movie that seems so terribly on point with current American sensibilities. It was a nasty book, with the reader’s enjoyment of it depending largely upon his or her tolerance of the unreliable and unlikable narrator Paul Lohman.

But here that film is, transposed from Amsterdam to an unnamed American city that could be Los Angeles by the perpetually interesting filmmaker Oren Moverman (he wrote screenplays for I’m Not There and Love & Mercy, directed Rampart, The Messenger), with the character of Paul inhabited by the Englishman Steve Coogan, affecting what might be described as an aggressive American accent. And what seemed in 2013 to be a particularly European manner of thinking — a heightened attunement to civilization masking the shameful horror of the human potential for savagery — has morphed into the nihilistic notion that everybody who isn’t a total fool is out to press whatever advantage they may have to the fullest and that any code of manners and civility is just a front.

After all we’ve been through in the past couple of years, maybe we’ve received some instruction in ruthlessness.

In any case, the setup is simple and not much different from the model established by Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Paul, a former high school history teacher and Civil War obsessive, and his sympathetic wife, Claire (Laura Linney), are to meet Paul’s otter sleek brother Stan (Richard Gere) and his trophy wife Katelyn (Rebecca Hall) over dinner at an impossibly expensive and extravagant restaurant housed in an opulent mansion. They are there to discuss a startling act of modern violence that was committed by their offspring and uploaded as a YouTube video. That the video doesn’t actually identify the perpetrators complicates things, as does the fact that not everyone at the table is in full possession of the facts.

Stan is a popular congressman involved in revising the Affordable Care Act who’s currently running for governor. Paul is a caustic misanthrope who has grown up in Stan’s shadow and resents his sibling’s success and pretentiousness. It goes without saying that Stan has much to lose if his son is outed as one of the beserkers. But the implications of the act have rocked the entire family — things must be talked over and decided. Do we turn them in and let the authorities handle it? Do we ruin their lives and ours as well?

Through the course of a long, luxurious dinner, each course announced with an elegant title card that doubles as a chapter heading, the story unspools as characters and relationships are fleshed out with flashbacks. It’s impossible to miss the ironic central motif — these presumably left-leaning folks are gathering in a culinary temple designed to serve the 1 percent. And while Paul is borderline hostile to the professionally composed maitre d’ (Michael Chernus) — “Can you taste the wars and famines?” he inquires when presented with a platter of “internationally flavored” hors d’ouevres — it’s clear he’s comfortable with his privilege.

( It’s also interesting to consider Paul’s distaste of this foodie haven with Coogan’s ongoing The Trip films, in which he and his friend comedian Rob Brydon embark on culinary road trips across various European countries. The latest in the series, The Trip to Spain, screened alongside The Dinner at the recent Tribeca Film Festival.)

Whether or not you appreciate the film will largely depend on what you make of Coogan’s performance — some are likely to perceive it as grating and over the top, while others might see it as a natural reaction to the tailored smoothness of his big brother.

As the extravagant dinner proceeds, Moverman continues to undermine our kneejerk perceptions of these characters. We discover that the caustic Paul, who first appears as a grimly honest truth-teller, is a deeply wounded man whose Howard Zinn-ish view of American history might be pathological. Claire’s kindliness is revealed as a mask that conceals a furious loyalty. Katelyn is more than a pretty face. And Stan, who we initially perceive as a Clinton-esque opportunist, is revealed as a man of comparative dignity and relative morals — though in the end, it’s hard to say that matters. Being the better man is no guarantee of triumph.

Not in this century, not in this country.