In By Design, A Chair Becomes A Symbol Of The Feminine Mystique
Juliette Lewis swaps souls with furniture in this experimental — and oddly charming — drama.
Likening yourself to an inanimate object is a classic tenet of girlhood. At any moment one could feel like a plastic bag, a Hello Kitty plushie, or a stalk of celery. Sometimes it feels good to explore our inner worlds through hyperbole and metaphor; sometimes you just don’t want to feel like a person at all. It’s that unspoken desire that By Design, the latest surreal satire from Amanda Kramer, takes to its most literal extent. Part experimental theater, part absurd tragicomedy, By Design is an oddball of a film — but it manages to express an untenable aspect of the feminine mystique with a unique blend of gonzo charm.
Yellowjackets’ Juliette Lewis stars as Camille, a single, middle-aged woman desperate to transcend her own humanity. Her day-to-day life routinely fails to provide the sort of stimulation she yearns for: though she spends most days lunching with chatty friends Lisa (Samantha Mathis) and Irene (Robin Tunney), their conversations are “devoid of ideas” and, without fail, always “filled with crisis.” Lisa and Irene would sooner exchange passive-aggressive pleasantries than discuss anything worthwhile, a habit that grates against Camille’s own existential equilibrium. When one calls Camille to talk behind the other’s back, our heroine wisely asks if any of this would matter to an alien studying humanity. As By Design’s omniscient narrator (Melanie Griffith) explains, this is a woman who would gladly leave society behind if given the chance.
Her opportunity finally arrives in a sleek furniture showroom, of all places. While window shopping with Lisa and Irene, Camille crosses paths with a bespoke wooden chair — the Narrator calls it the “Stunner” — and it’s love at first sight. At first, she thinks she wants to own it, even if it’s the kind of statement piece that could set her back for months. But once a mysterious patron purchases the chair right under her nose, Camille decides that, in reality, she wants to be it. She wants to be needed, to be adored, to be beautiful and eternal, in the same way a good piece of furniture is. There’s something to be said about the ways society turns its back on women like Camille as they age, even if they’re emotionally secure. That Camille is more assured than any of the female characters in her orbit means less and less each day. Soon she’ll be obsolete, so she wishes to be a chair instead.
And, by some inexplicable miracle, Camille actually gets her wish. She manages to swap bodies with The Stunner just as it’s packaged up to go to its new home, adorning the sparse bachelor pad of a jazz pianist named Olivier (Mamoudou Athie). Just as Camille and her friends were instantly enamored with the chair, Olivier also falls head over heels. Maybe it’s because of its ideal ergonomic design; maybe he can sense the attentive soul residing in it. Maybe he wants to possess something that exists only to support him. Either way, it becomes his obsession, a source of comfort as he tries to move on from a bad breakup.
Olivier sleeps in the chair instead of his bed, and even takes it along to a dinner party because he can’t bear to sit anywhere else. Camille, the Narrator tells us, is pretty thrilled by their strange, one-sided bond. It’s good to be needed this way, even if she can’t express any of her thoughts and her dreams are punctuated by weird sequences of interpretive dance. By Design shares some connective tissue with Kramer’s past works, namely Please Baby Please, by introducing elements of arthouse performance. It works when our Narrator runs out of ways to describe Camille’s emotional journey — especially when we cut back to her body, now totally comatose as it houses the “mind” of the chair.
Camille’s friends dutifully bring her body back to her apartment, and initially seem to prefer her as an inanimate object. They keep their daily appointments with Camille, chatting about superfluous things as if nothing’s changed. Camille’s mother even uses her as a sounding board, as does an intruder who breaks into her home with perverse intentions (and later tries to tapdance his frustrations away). Each, in turn, are moved by Camille’s newfound silence and her thousand-yard stare: it seems like the chair is capable of charming any audience, even in the body of a woman. Could this be the best of both worlds for all involved?
The answer isn’t quite so simple, especially as our cast is increasingly obsessed with the chair. Crazed characters crawl on all fours begging others to sit on them; others go to wild lengths just for a few moments alone with the chair. None of it is particularly subtle, but at least a clear thesis emerges from all this experimental scene work. Kramer is carving a treatise on possession, materialism, and emotional baggage out of, frankly, a pretty silly premise. It’s light on plot because it’s more about evoking a feeling, be it sympathy, anxiety, or disgust. And though its performances are appropriately broad, with physical choices that encroach on the vaudevillian, By Design finds something of a middle ground with a thoughtful script and wry humor.
Virtues aside, Kramer’s work definitely isn’t for everyone. By Design’s most obvious callback — to a quote about resentment that Camille once used often — doesn’t entirely land, and some will inevitably find its mounting absurdity pretty tedious. At a little under 90 minutes, By Design is mercifully short, but it’s a concept that might have been better served in another medium. Athie is compelling as Olivier, a manchild on the brink of a nervous breakdown, but Lewis doesn’t get many opportunities to showcase her range, especially once Camille goes catatonic.
By Design demands a lot from the audience, and not in any traditional sense — but even with its unconventional techniques, it can grow on you, even bewitch you, if you let it.
