The Sessions is a film that on paper looks like a sure-fire Academy Award nominee. The story of Mark O’Brien, a polio-stricken journalist who undergoes a sexual awakening with the help of a sex surrogate, is poignant, funny and heart-wrenching.
John Hawkes, fresh off top-notch performances in Winter’s Bone and Martha Marcy May Marlene, is perfect for the lead role, and the challenges therein (his character is confined to a bed or an iron lung for the entire movie) plant The Sessions squarely in the “Oscar-bait” category. Hawkes plays O’Brien frank with a sardonic edge, a genuinely good person forced into a somewhat taboo situation as he tries to find a way to lose his virginity.
Helen Hunt similarly goes the distance for her role as Cheryl Cohen Greene, a therapist who uses a hands-on methodology on clients that are sexually underdeveloped. She puts on a solid performance, baring it all for the role (established actresses who are pushing 50 taking their clothes off is another check on the award-hunter checklist).
William H. Macy, an Oscar nominee in his own right, plays Father Brendan, the laugh-lined, flowing-haired priest who councils O’Brien through his tough decisions. The Sessions actually toys with some religious themes, albeit without going far enough to offend anybody. When O’Brien is asked if he believes in God, he responds: “I would find it absolutely intolerable not to be able to blame someone for all this.”
The problem with this movie may lie with the real-life main character. Mark O’Brien seems to deal with everything on a fairly even keel. He’s an iron-lung-confined 38-year-old that requires ’round-the-clock assistance, but he still finds it in himself to flirt with his attendants, crack wise on the phone and drop off love poetry at his crush’s house. But when a man treats the potential of death by iron lung malfunction as flippantly as he does the choice of shirt for the day, it’s hard to create the depth of empathy required to really make you feel something. Sure, his indomitable, inimitable spirit shines through, but he’s just too damn happy all the time for the audience to feel sorry for him. Again, that’s probably just due to O’Brien’s sunny disposition and no fault of Hawkes (or writer/director Ben Lewin, who adapted the screenplay from O’Brien’s essay “On Seeing a Sex Surrogate”).
In the end, not being sad enough is not much of a denouncement for a movie. It may not have quite the roller-coaster ride of emotions that a film of this type needs to push it over the edge into award country. Still, tears are jerked, taboos are explored and John Hawkes acts. That ought to be enough to garner a few nominations, at least. Watch it just so you know what you’re talking about when the red carpet rolls out.
