Director: Aaron Schimberg
Writer: Aaron Schimberg
Stars: Sebastian Stan, Adam Pearson, Renate Reinsve
Synopsis: Aspiring actor Edward undergoes a radical medical procedure to drastically transform his appearance. But his new dream face quickly turns into a nightmare, as he loses out on the role he was born to play and becomes obsessed with reclaiming what was lost.
A deliberate and shrewd depiction of a man who loses his mind as he takes steps toward what he believes is a greater sense of control, Aaron Schimberg’s third feature, A Different Man, is a dangerous cultural object. Not only should we fear it for the litany of misdirections it baits audiences with, but for how sure it is to force us to turn the unflinching gaze we aim outward onto ourselves, externally and internally, an action human beings are hardly even inclined to perform with a therapist, let alone on a random Tuesday. At times a satire, yet more so a jet-black comedy with an astute sense of reality, what this never-all-that-surprising yet simultaneously unpredictable film achieves in its takedown of our preconceived glorification of appearance — specifically its perceived “importance” in society — makes it one of the more lucid portraits of what really lies under the skin not just of this year, but any year. It’s not to be missed, should you dare.
Whether or not you’re a glutton for discomfort may dictate your willingness to try Schimberg’s film on for size once A24 releases it in theaters this September. But it’s the brilliant sort of work that doesn’t so much as place an emphasis on visual unease as it uses it to pave its way to deeper reflections; on identity, on personality, on our preternatural unwillingness to accept verity on its terms to due a desire for vanity. As it charts the life of struggling actor Edward (Sebastian Stan) through what begins as a painful existence and only becomes worse as the days go by, there are a few ways to read A Different Man, but only one resolute takeaway from the viewing experience it offers: It never wastes its breath.
Edward feels like he is perpetually wasting his. Perhaps it’s the fact that he lives on the Upper West Side of a Beau Is Afraid-lite New York City, a place where everyone wants everyone to know their name yet a select few can bother to remember it. It might be his profession; if you haven’t met an audition-to-audition artist in Manhattan, have you really ever been? Or maybe it’s his neurofibromatosis, a medical condition that causes tumors to balloon all over his face — you can thank the work of makeup artist Mike Marino for your confusion as to why Bucky Barnes has top billing, yet doesn’t appear as his magazine-cover-worth self until close to half the movie is over.
When we meet Edward, he’s bumbling up the stairs of his apartment building as passersby gasp at his appearance, or mutter “Jesus Christ” at the mere fact that they are forced to eke past this monstrosity of a neighbor; clearly, this is a guy who feels like a nuisance wherever he goes. On the set of a schlocky, harshly-toned human resources video meant to teach employees how to communicate with their disfigured coworkers, he’s the only actor who receives notes; his apartment is seemingly the shabbiest in his walk-up, the only dwelling with a seeping black leak in his ceiling. When he accepts the opportunity to take part in an experimental drug trial that should, in theory, rid him of his tumors, not even the nurse assigned to redress his wound can make eye contact without so much as holding back a gag.
It’s not until Ingrid (a loose, unknowingly-callous Renate Reinsve) moves in next door that Edward truly feels seen for who he is as a person — that is, once we get past her asking, “What happened to you?” and Edward not knowing whether she’s referring to his appearance or the gash on his hand, one that Ingrid caused with a startling knock at his door while he was chopping vegetables. She’s beautiful and kind, and immediately makes Edward feel normal; she even makes an awkward offer to pop the blackheads on his nose and to give him a cream for his “really oily” skin feel like a kindhearted gesture, not one meant to make her experience in his presence more comfortable. It’s only when Ingrid rejects Edward’s barely-romantic pass at her that he decides it’s time to ramp up his treatment, leading to a few nauseating sequences that could make the Safdie brothers cringe as David Cronenberg yelps in glee.
And it’s only then that Stan finally becomes recognizable, and Edward — now calling himself “Guy” after feigning that poor Eddy went and offed himself, ‘cause duh — reaps the benefits of his newfound handsomeness. Meet-cute blowjobs in a grimy bar bathroom; a killer, leak-free apartment that one-night stands walk out of feeling safe and satisfied; a stable, lucrative career as a sleazy-yet-sexy real estate agent. Everything Edward has seemingly ever wanted is finally at Guy’s fingertips. Except, of course, that whole acting career he once pursued in vain, until he spots Ingrid, a playwright, entering an off-Broadway theater set to house her new production, “Edward”. Finally, a part Edward was meant to play. If only he wasn’t Guy…
If that sounds like something of a windy set-up with a disappointingly simple resolution in mind, you’re in for a treat of Kaufmanian proportions. A lesser filmmaker might have taken the opportunity A Different Man presents and elected to peddle ideas of acceptance into viewers’ minds with a startling lack of cognizance, rendering moot what was otherwise a genius conceit. Schimberg’s approach — recognizable if you’ve seen his previous film, the less-assured but similarly-shrewd Chained for Life — slyly considers the notion that judging a book by its cover gets you nowhere, whether that judgment is positive or negative. It does so, in part, in the form of Oswald (Adam Pearson, memorably of Under the Skin), a charming man who becomes an object of obsession for Edward due to how well he carries himself despite his dealing with his own neurofibromatosis — a condition Pearson actually has. Not only is Oswald charismatic and successful, but he represents something far more threatening in Edward’s orbit: A reminder of the skin he once shed, and the person he could never become.
Oswald’s arrival unveils a secondary element to Stan’s stunning performance, for Guy is a harebrained maniac with zip personality (or, better yet, a lousy one). It’s a far cry from his time as Edward, a slouched, lived-in turn from Stan that allows what was already a gifted actor to give his most layered work to date, not to mention his best. As thrilling as the film itself tends to be, it’s that much more riveting to watch Stan continue populating his non-Marvel filmography with inventive showings, many of which have sociopathic tendencies abound. Notably, in Mimi Cave’s criminally-underseen 2021 thriller, Fresh, a two-faced Stan flipped from charming to cannibalistic serial killer on a dime in what was, to that point, his most exciting appearance. What he does in A Different Man is portray darkness on a different, more unsettling level; Edward/Guy’s true self not masked by charm, per se, but by an inability to accept his shortcomings. He’d rather cosplay as literally anyone else.
It’s a complicated performance in a film rich with complicated questions, most of which aren’t easily answered, or keen to be pinned down at all. That Schimberg, despite maybe packing his third effort with one too many strong ideas, is able to keep it all from crumbling would be a triumph to itself, if not for how utterly clever, dark, and hilarious the result is as it stands. While using vanity as a means to a narrative end, not once does he abuse its privileges; the few beautiful faces with which A Different Man is populated belong to borderline detestable people. That’s what makes reading such a brilliant form of Russian Roulette. Even the sexiest book flaps can feel empty once you see what lies inside.
