Indie trend infects film and theater

There is a sickeningly fake trend in Hollywood.

The formula is simple and transparent: A quirky, young and precocious main character possibly suffers from mental problems. He or she moves through life as a quirky outsider, and maybe teaches the “normals” something about love or life. Add ugly hand-written titles and soft acoustic guitar music to complete the formula.

You know what I’m talking about: “Indie films.”
Set aside the hackneyed recipe for teen rebellion. Ignore the fact that “independent film” is nothing more than a major Hollywood studio’s code for “quirky teen comedy” and a way for hipsters to acquire their Indie music soundtracks.

It seems fine to leave the fake realism and raging quirkiness to the likes of “Juno,” “Charlie Bartlett” or “Away We Go.”
“Love Song,” by John Kolvenbach, is the newest entry into this cookie-cutter trend — though instead of being a capitalizing movie, it’s actually a play.

This is disappointing and disgusting.

The “movie-making business” is just that — a business, and one that involves gambling. The industry turns out products that make money, so popularity breeds imitation. If “Napoleon Dynamite” was shown to make money, it’s a safe bet to green light more of the same.
The result is trite tripe that makes money. So why does a play need to follow this formula?

If you’ve seen any of these movies, you know not only what “Love Song” is about but also how it is told.
The quirky, oddball protagonist (Peter Diseth) searches for meaning, help and discussion from his older sister (Kristin Hansen) and her husband (Mark Hisler). Mostly, the couple exchanges mind-numbing dialogue about their sex and life until their quirky ray of sunshine walks in.

This is not to say the acting is bad by any means. On the contrary, Diseth’s part is fabulous. You’ll like him when he talks, and you’ll like him when he doesn’t. If you’ve seen Diseth perform before, you know he possesses diversity. But he can’t carry the whole show himself.
You’ll realize Hansen is quite good, too, once she’s actually given something to do. Her best scene is one where she’s united with her brother and where the actors display their quiet, beautiful familial bond.

These, unfortunately, are small parts of a bland, predictable script with an insulting “twist” and rounded off with that ever-poignant, ever-annoying Indie music.

So ask yourself: Did “Garden State” make you cry? Do you like something light gallivanting as edgy? Does a corporate trend presenting counterculture not bother you? Are you a hipster?
If so, you may like “Love Song.” But for me, it’s everything that’s wrong with theater.