It’s exciting to see Shyamalan on such confident footing once more, all these years later.
Here is a movie that looks like a parody, sounds like a parody and plays like a parody, but isn't a parody -- because the genre it's making fun of doesn't exist. Maybe "Love at Large" is a satire on satire itself. It feels like a movie from another time-space continuum, another world where audiences would understand the jokes and respond to the references. It should play in a theater where the manager is Rod Serling.
Alan Rudolph has made movies like this before. The difference is, I've liked them before. There was "Choose Me," with its radio sex therapist, its escaped killer and its beautiful broad who owned a bar.
And "Trouble in Mind," with the refugees from a film noir hanging out in a sleazy downtown bar and grill, while troops from an unknown country occupied the streets.
Now we have "Love at Large," where the private detective meets the dame in the low-cut dress in a nightclub while the band plays sexy ballads and cigarette girls slink past in the background. Is this the 1940s? No, because the characters also drive modern cars and fly in jets, and the households look like real locations.