L.a. Futzing

By RICHARD SCHICKEL

Peter and Katherine (Peter Weller and Judy Davis) are bored and careless. They lose jobs, take on lovers, futz around with guru-driven spirituality and dress to the nines. You could argue, as writer-director Michael Tolkin doubtless did when he was pitching The New Age, that they are perfect exemplars of chic anomie as it manifests itself in postmodern -- or postrational -- Los Angeles. You could also argue, as people whose malls don't yet contain an Issey Miyake boutique might, that they are hopeless twits.

It is possible that Tolkin, who in 1992 adapted his own novel, The Player, for the screen, harbored satirical hopes for this project. But as a director he lacks the antic eye that (often enough to keep us interested) rescues Robert Altman from depression and pretension. Tolkin just doesn't know how to position himself -- far enough from his characters to make fun of them, close enough to them to retain our sympathy. And the question of whether they will make a go of Hipocracy, the upmarket clothing store they decide to open, is not a compelling one. Shopkeeping cannot compare to moviemaking and murder (The Player's topics) in dramatic interest. Peter and Katherine don't even bicker entertainingly as their marriage collapses; they just drawl withdrawal. The languid self-satisfaction of The New Age, the sense that its maker knows most people will hate it and doesn't care because he's issuing "a personal statement," is its most annoying quality. Don't be suckered. Your first instinct is right. It's a terrible movie.