The Weight of Water (2000) from Johnny Web (Uncle Scoopy; Greg Wroblewski) and Tuna

The films are not similar in tone, however, and they relate the parallel stories in very different ways. Possession is a more straightforward film. Two literary scholars co-operate in the investigation of a secret and theretofore unsuspected relationship between two nineteenth century poets. Each of the modern day scholars specializes in one of the Victorian lovers, paired off by matching sexes. Gwyneth Paltrow, for example, is a specialist in the woman being investigated. She feels she knows the woman, and she identifies with her. When all of her assumptions about the female poet are challenged, she begins to re-examine her analysis of the poet and of herself as well. The fact that the poet turned out to be more open to the varieties and richness of love than previously thought caused Gwyneth to open herself up in a similar way. All in all, that was quite a tidy script.

The Weight of Water is far less contrived than that, and more subtle. Unfortunately, contrivance can be as underrated as subtlety is overrated. The problem with this subtle, uncontrived approach is that it is just not interesting. The script is constantly searching for profundity, and perhaps it succeeds in that quest from time to time, but this water was a little too weighty for my taste. It seeks depth while sacrificing a compelling narrative.

A female photographer/journalist is investigating a 19th century double murder among the mostly Norwegian immigrants on the rugged islands off the coast of New Hampshire. Her husband's brother has a boat, and the two couples turn the research into a working vacation of sorts. The journalist wants to understand the case fully, so she gets so far into the psychology of the characters in the past that she is dreaming about them, imagining them. She concludes that the crime was not committed by the person or for the reasons normally imagined.

In the present, her marriage to a Pulitzer-winning poet is experiencing difficulties, and that situation is not made any easier by the fact that her husband is flirting with his brother's girlfriend. It is especially troubling since the girlfriend looks a lot like the gorgeous British model/actress, Elizabeth Hurley. In fact, exactly like her. Ms. Hurley seems to spend all of her screen time making eyes at the husband, sunbathing topless, and sucking suggestively on various household objects.

It is always difficult to manage parallel stories in the past and present. Looking back on the films which have used that device, not many of them are that memorable, for various reasons. The greatest weakness of the device in this particular avatar is that the connection between the past and the present is tenuous. I was watching carefully, mindful of that very link, and I saw only one very good use of the past story to explain something in the present. There is a brief period in the present day story when the journalist's actions seem inexplicable unless one understands what actually happened in the past, as well as the journalist's perception of it. That moment rang through like a powerful bell, but the rest of the film almost seemed like two unrelated stories being cut together randomly.

I guess I could live with the sudden merging of the characters' motivations from previously unsuspected connections if the two stories were each supremely interesting, or even if one of them was, but in this case neither of the two separate stories, if viewed separately, would really hold one's attention. Even the double axe murder in the past is dull because there is no surprise in the story's retelling. We are led to believe from the very outset that the accused murderer is innocent, and we are led to believe who really did it and why. The fully detailed story simply confirms what we had already inferred. There is a surprise twist in the present, but I can't say it is one that will provide much of a reward to the viewer for having watched faithfully through the contemporary story filled with portentous exchanges and meaningful glances.

The film's formula was consistent, but unsuccessful: (languorous, meaningful glancing and pregnant pausing in the present) + (a complete lack of surprises in the past) = boredom.  The entire project is slow and arty, and the running time has been padded with recitations from poetry. I'm not surprised that the film was such a complete failure at the box office.