‘Happiness’: Living in a State of Irony

Playfully named “Happiness,” Todd Solondz’s painful, deadpan burlesque of bourgeois mores encompasses murder, mutilation, rape, pedophilia, suicide, obscene phone calls and free-floating masochism, among syndromes yet to be named. “Happiness” scared off its initial distributor but struck a chord at Cannes. Released unrated, it was hailed as the dark comedy du jour, a runner-up in three categories (film, screenplay and actor) in the 1998 New York Film Critics Circle’s annual awards.

The movie may not be as shocking as it was 27 years ago but, revived for a run at the IFC Center in a new 4K restoration, it has scarcely lost its capacity to discomfit.

A family drama centered on three adult sisters, “Happiness” mocks mid-period Woody Allen as it transposes Chekhov to suburban New Jersey. The eldest, Trish (Cynthia Stevenson), is a smug housewife with two kids and a psychoanalyst husband named Bill (Dylan Baker), who is depressed and harboring a desire for small boys. Bill’s patient (Philip Seymour Hoffman) drones through his sessions and makes obscene phone calls to the middle sister, Helen (Lara Flynn Boyle).

Thoroughly unpleasant Helen is a narcissistic writer, author of a best-selling novel titled “A Pornographic Childhood.” By contrast, the youngest, most sympathetic sibling, Joy (Jane Adams), is a hapless failure — a would-be singer-songwriter introduced in the film’s opening sequence, making a bad date worse.

Their parents, Mona (Louise Lasser) and Lenny (Ben Gazzara), are unhappy in Florida, where the local real estate agent is played by a glitzy Marla Maples, then married to the real estate developer Donald Trump. Her character tells Mona that getting a divorce was the best decision of her life. (Solondz is a master caster.)

Everyone is alone. They are largely oblivious to each other’s misery, yet the strongest, funniest scenes are one-on-ones. Often shot in close-up, these suggest acting exercises or skit comedy gone off the rails. The bit in which Bill explains what used to be called “the facts of life” to his 11-year-old son is as excruciating as it is absurd.