SZMAGAJ: “Even as his life circles a drain of his own making, we kinda-sorta want Morty to win. Why? Because Morty is us. Rarely has a filmmaker held a mirror up right smack in front of his audience as adroitly as this. And we can’t look away. It’s as if Whaley has distilled every wretched thing we’ve ever done, every situation we’ve ever handled badly, regretted, and hated ourselves for in the morning, into a single character and then had the audacity to slap us in the face with him. And because Morty embodies everything we loathe in ourselves, we simultaneously want to kill him and see him prevail.”
WILKINSON: “Whaley cleverly puts the viewer in the position of Morty’s acquaintances as we, just as they have before us, find he is less tolerable the longer we know him. Whaley imbues him with a passive aggressiveness that is so subtle, however, that you may well overlook many of his less salubrious character traits on a first viewing, making repeat watches satsifyingly rewarding.”
Wherein I discuss the production of Hell Is Other People, and also my next feature, The Glass Slipper.
IPPOLITO: “With its laid back Docu-Drama style, about themes of social interaction and suburban isolation, it really seems like a Reality TV Show, similar to say, Bravo’s “Hoarders” or “Intervention”, expanded past its usual hour length. Deft portrait of morally decaying figures surrounded by that same urban decay in the rundown South.”
CORRAL: “If this is a mumblecore film, it is most definitely a mumblecore of a different sort. The lilting Tennessee accents of the characters quickly drew me in, and even with the sometimes blurry handheld camera work the film has a beauty that director Jarrod Whaley’s incredibly touching short film PASSION FLOWER also exhibited.”
“Hell is Other People offers up the pariah Morty, whom director Jarrod Whaley described as a distillation of all the things we don’t like about other people (i.e., ourselves). Morty certainly is that, but there’s something lovable about this character as embodied by Richard Johnson, blinking uncomprehendingly behind smudged glasses, and this creates a compelling tension in the film: when Morty uses his loser superpowers to weasel out of paying a bill, it’s almost unwatchably humiliating. What Whaley brings to the post-mumblecore moment is actual writing, a script replete with memorable one-liners (“It’s my fault you got better” is worthy of a hand-wringing Woody Allen character). The sincere, contemplative aspects of Hell is Other People are dangerously complemented by unself-conscious bawdiness—the film opens with a loud fart. Like the writing of Kafka and Rabelais, Hell is Other People is more filling than its maker wants you to think it is. This is an archaic form of craftiness that, like the patiently staggered opening credits, adds a layer of unanticipated charm. On reflection the titular reference to Sartre assures us that our discomfort with ourselves is always there; Whaley is merely adept at punching the bruise.”