Films concerning mental illness generally rely on actors to convey the disease’s twitchy instability, erratic behavior and the often heartbreaking frustration that comes from self-awareness: Mary Stuart Masterson (1993’s Benny & Joon) and Bradley Cooper (2012’s Silver Linings Playbook) come to mind.
Our sense of such characters remains mostly external; we rarely experience the unreality of their shattered senses. Skillful authors can depict that in a novel, but it’s much harder to convey visually, without the result becoming silly … or, even worse, trivialized.
More than anything else, Adam (Charlie Plummer) wants to lead a "normal" life ...
which means that he insists on keeping his mental instability secret from Maya
(Taylor Russell).
Director Thor Freudenthal and scripter Nick Naveda deftly avoid such pitfalls, with their sensitive, shattering — and, at times, even chilling — adaptation of Julia Walton’s 2017 novel. Thanks also to a strong cast, this saga of teenage schizophrenia is illuminating, sobering and, yes, heartwarming.
That said, the book’s fans will note that while Naveda retains the essential plot points, he has taken serious liberties with details. Numerous characters have been dropped, and key events have been altered. (Rather crucially, the significance of the book’s title has been tampered with.) It’s perhaps safer to say that this film is inspired by Walton’s novel, rather than faithfully adapted from it.
Much the way Walton presents her story as a series of journal entries, Adam (Charlie Plummer) narrates his saga during a series of sessions with an off-camera psychiatrist (never revealed). He’s a standard-issue high school kid with a doting single mother (Molly Parker, as Beth); the two of them have become a “team” after being abandoned by his father.
Charlie’s a bit on the nerdish end: mildly unkempt, with long, straggly hair that frequently obscures his eyes. Partly in an effort to cheer up his mother, following the breakup, he experimented with cooking, and has developed considerable culinary talents; he dreams of becoming a chef in a posh restaurant.
But Charlie has become increasingly dogged by often terrifying illusions, always triggered by black mists and a growling, disembodied voice emanating from open doorways. He and his mother pursue various drugs and therapies, none of which slows his frightening slide into mental instability.
He also experiences recurring visual hallucinations in the form of three near-constant companions: Rebecca (AnnaSophia Robb), a sexy, sympathetic flower child; Joaquin (Devon Bostick), a hormonal teen clad solely in an unbelted bathrobe; and “The Bodyguard” (Lobo Sebastian), an imposing, bat-wielding protector with a shaved head.
In lesser directorial hands, these apparitions would be played for comic relief. That isn’t the case here: a testament to the delicacy of Freudenthal’s approach. Even the gentle Rebecca and unapologetically vulgar Joaquin become sinister at times, when they abruptly, unexpectedly invade Adam’s personal space.
A psychotic break in chemistry class prompts expulsion midway through his senior year. A last-chance lifeline arrives via an experimental drug trial, and St. Agatha’s, a Catholic academy that agrees to accept him — despite his absence of faith — as long as he remains on his meds.
He catches the eye of class valedictorian Maya (Taylor Russell), initially because she finds him an unlikely presence in St. Agatha’s rigorously structured environment. She’s wicked-smart, doggedly ambitious and perhaps a trifle condescending. She’s also entrepreneurial, and — when Adam becomes in danger of flunking out in math — agrees to become his tutor.
Russell is radiant: coy, jovial, mildly snarky and irrepressibly self-assured. Maya probably is too good to be true, but Russell makes her credible. (And how intriguing, just in passing, that Russell and Parker are two members of the Robinson family, in the current re-boot of Lost in Space.)
The resulting arc of their relationship is predictable, but only to a degree. We wonder, with mounting unease, which direction this story will take. Will the experimental drug prove to have unfortunate side effects? Will this become a riff on Flowers for Algernon, with its euphoric improvement subsequently shattered by a slide back to status quo?
Worse yet, will Adam succumb when the foreboding voice suggests a “permanent solution” to his problems?
On the home front, Beth begins a relationship with Paul (the always engaging Walton Goggins), whose presence disrupts the two-person “team” that she and Adam have established. Goggins is sublime in this role, and we can’t get a bead on him. He’s almost preternaturally calm and quiet, keeping close counsel; Adam feels as though he’s being studied, analyzed … and judged.
Goggins’ voice is measured, his bearing wary; although initially the intrusive third wheel, we begin to fear that he’s maneuvering that role upon Adam. Parker, in turn, handles the rising complexity of Beth’s position with similar skill; although she remains the fierce mother bear in her son’s orbit, she also craves the adult companionship that Paul provides.
Andy Garcia pops up midway through this saga, as Father Patrick, the school’s priest. Garcia is terrific in this marvelously sculpted role: a blunt, slightly unconventional priest who’s secure enough in his faith, to handle Adam’s initial disrespect with amused equanimity.
Beth Grant also stands out as no-nonsense Sister Catherine, St. Agatha’s strict — but fair-minded — headmistress.
All these engaging characters notwithstanding, the film belongs to Plummer. Our hearts break each time Adam succumbs to anxiety or anguish; we quietly cheer during “calmer” moments, when his shy smile is matched by aw-shucks charm. I love watching him cook, while he discusses the finer points of a tantalizing dish. Then, with heartbreaking abruptness, his gaze turns desperate, terrified. It’s an impressively nuanced performance.
The unorthodox but oddly captivating soundtrack is an at-times hallucinating blend of composer Andrew Hollander’s instrumental underscore, and eclectic songs by Drew Taggart and Alex Pall (better known as the Grammy Award-winning DJ/production duo The Chainsmokers). The film also benefits from the efforts of sound designer Elliott Koretz, who delivers the cacophonic soundscape of what takes place in Adam’s head.
My one complaint — and it’s serious — is the whiplash-jarring disconnect between the climax and its subsequent denouement: so abrupt, with so many crucial details left undisclosed, that it feels as if several key scenes were left on the cutting-room floor. And it’s the only time this film feels “Hollywood,” rather than authentic.
Fortunately, Freudenthal, Naveda and their cast have built up enough good will, that we forgive this lapse. Words on Bathroom Walls isn’t merely an engaging and emotionally rich story; it’s a valuable reminder that people aren’t defined by their afflictions.
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