Sadly, Prime also doesn't work to keep audiences from composing mental shopping lists or wondering if there's still time to catch A History Of Violence in the next theater over. It's easy on the eyes: Younger takes fine advantage of his New York locations and photogenic cast. He also has a nice grasp of how to stage scenes of breezy interaction without forcing the moment. The film's dealings with its central contrivance—that Streep is also Thurman's therapist, unbeknownst to anyone else involved—feel almost embarrassed.
Still, there's something to be said for that plot device, if only because it brings Prime's central issues into focus. It's refreshing to see a film that talks about differences in age and religion and doesn't just wave them away with movie magic. If only it were more than talk. Greenberg and Thurman are both engaging, but they can't quite compensate for their characters' shallowness. Streep, on the other hand, just can't stop compensating. Her oy-vey-can-you-believe-the-kid-and-his-shiksa performance is all studied mannerisms with no real heart.
Younger's direction is pretty studied too, albeit in a way that suggests he might get beyond paying homage to his inspirations one of these days. He made a striking debut with the Wall Street and David Mamet-inspired Boiler Room. Prime is his Woody Allen nod, all elegant cityscapes, neurotic love affairs, broad comic asides, and tasteful cultural references, plus a closing scene that owes more than a dab to the end of Annie Hall. It passes the time, but Ben Younger is going to have to make a Ben Younger film one of these days.
