Lymelife

It would be easy to dismiss Lymelife as yet another in an endless line of "evil suburbs" dramedies, with shades of American Beauty family crises, but it's notable that the suburbs don't come off as the bad guy here. They're not a seething marsh of unhappiness that sucks the life and joy out of otherwise good people. In fact, I'd say the best thing about the film is that you get the clear sense that, aside from the unfortunate Lyme disease scare, any and all of these problems could manifest had the film taken place in the precious Brooklyn that the Bartlett family fled for rural Long Island. Affairs, bullies, splintering marriages, budding sexual relationships, father-son complications—the film blames none of this on the suburbs. If Steven and Derick Martini, the cowriters and likely codirectors (only Derick took credit), have any particular gift or insight into the human condition, it's their clear knowledge that most real problems of human interaction are internal, not native to a particular place. The only problem is that this insight is the only really notable thing about the film.

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