A Modern Marriage of Inconvenience
This article is from the archive of The New York Sun before the launch of its new website in 2022. The Sun has neither altered nor updated such articles but will seek to correct any errors, mis-categorizations or other problems introduced during transfer.

Now here’s a romance custommade for our modern, ADD culture. Ten minutes in, man and woman have met; 20 minutes in they are married. Ten minutes later comes the honeymoon, another 10 minutes sees them into marriage counseling, and another 600 seconds finds the film reaching something of a dead end, its attention wandering away from them to an adulterous scandal involving their parents (and we haven’t even touched upon the angry ex-girlfriend, the cute ex-husbands, or the angry therapist who dumps the guy as a client).
The problem with “Ira & Abby” is not the premise, but the sloppy and exaggerated way in which that premise is stretched beyond all realistic dimensions. There are more neurotic monologues here than in a Woody Allen film, more scandals than in a Minnesota airport bathroom, more tears than backstage at the Video Music Awards. And the conflicts aren’t so much inspired and resolved by a deus ex machina, but through a veritable deus chaine de montage (God assembly line) — all the unexpected crying, smiles, marital vows, changes of heart, and misunderstandings zipping by at the speed of light.
If Jennifer Westfeldt — the writer and star of both “Ira & Abby” and the overrated 2002 indie hit “Kissing Jessica Stein” — and director Robert Cary were intending to make some statement about our inability to commit, and our lack of intimacy, in this era of casual sex and the Internet, then the inability of “Ira & Abby” to entertain would at least be understandable. But sadly, one gets the notion that this is less a commentary on romantic clichés than a marathon of clichés gone wild — a sincere romance gone horribly wrong.
It’s during the opening credits that Ira (Chris Messina) offers up his first neurotic, self-absorbed and unlikable rant. A miserable shell of a man, lonely but seemingly disgusted by everyone he meets, Ira unloads his negativity on a therapist’s couch, his shrink visibly bewildered by the 30-something’s weekly tirade against humanity. This line of treatment isn’t working, the doc offers, and he doesn’t want to see Ira any more. Wandering New York City in a daze — coping with the reality of being dumped by his own analyst — Ira wanders into the neighborhood gym, is given a tour of the place by Abby (Ms. Westfeldt), the membership manager, and after a few hours she pops the question: Will he marry her?
Don’t arrive to the theater late, or you’ll miss the courtship: a walk by the exercise bikes, a chat in the yoga room, a brief conversation in Abby’s office, and a marriage proposal.
As Ira tries to comprehend what’s occurring, a few choice words about Abby will come to mind — namely clingy, confusing, and crackpot — but chemistry is not one of them, and we are given no evidence, no proof, of why this woman would make such a profound grab for this man. But Ira is a desperate and lonely soul, and when Abby sticks to her guns, saying he has a nice face, he goes along with it all. Soon enough, they are meeting each other’s parents, planning the wedding, moving in together, and then wondering if they’ve made a mistake. He’s her third husband, she’s a bit flighty for his tastes, and their daily sex soon becomes semi-daily.
Enter the exes and the divorce, the remarriage and the affair between one of Ira’s parents and one of Abby’s. Really, “Ira & Abby” would almost work as a farce, or a hyper, zany comedy in the style of “Bringing Up Baby” if it didn’t take its emotional twists and turns so seriously. But for this zig-zag affair to work as a romance — for all those passionate speeches and emotional cues to hit a nerve — we need more than a five-minute scene at a gym to fall back on.
We also need a couple that doesn’t seem like a pair of naïve, spoiled brats. Abby, as played by Ms. Westfeldt, is an outgoing woman capable of convincing anyone to share their life story, but who herself seems forever stuck on a single note of detached whimsy in her relationships. She smiles and laughs and jokes and sighs, stuck in a single gear, and gradually becomes a grating and unbelievable screen presence. Mr. Messina, meanwhile, is the frown to Ms. Westfeldt’s smiles, always doubting his happinesss and his love for Abby, and questioning the purpose of his existence. Yet again, it’s a single-note performance, Ms. Giddy and Mr. Grumpy stuck in neutral as they utter the same sweet nothings over and over.
From the very first scene, we never know why Ira and Abby care about each other — nor do they seem to know, for that matter, even after their wedding day — and we aren’t quite sure what the point of all this is supposed to be. In some ways, the story seems ripped from the pages of a 1950s diary, when many rushed to marry without truly knowing their mate. In other ways, it seems packed full of modern day, nervy ramblings, and the casual bouncing back and forth between lovers. But it’s hard to have it both ways, to take the love for granted and then spend the rest of the film questioning its very nature. By all accounts, Ira and Abby really don’t belong together, and we spend the film wondering what all their fussing is about. Just dump the weirdo and get a cat.
ssnyder@nysun.com