THE LISTENER (2023) REVIEW

To call "The Listener" minimalist would be like calling a triple-shot espresso a mere "cup of coffee." Shot a year into the pandemic, it made the rounds at film festivals in 2022 and is just now gracing us with its presence. Once you watch it, you'll see why it wasn't exactly flagged as the next big blockbuster. It's sensitive, subtle, and restrained, asking more of the audience than they might be prepared to give, like a movie that expects you to think. How rude.

Written by Alessandro Camon, the scribe behind "The Messenger," "The Cooler," and "Thank You for Smoking," this film is a one-woman show, sort of. Tessa Thompson stars as Beth, a phone counselor taking calls from troubled souls over the course of a night. The callers are voiced by a mix of actors you know and those you should know better, including Alia Shawkat, Rebecca Hall, Margaret Cho, Jamie Hector, and Logan Marshall-Green. You never see their faces, only Beth's reactions, as she mostly listens, sometimes chimes in with an empathetic comment, and occasionally heads off comments that cross the line. The voice performances are stellar, dripping with naturalism, and Thompson proves she can hold the screen all by herself, commanding your attention even while just sitting silently and listening.

The film feels like the mellow, introspective cousin of Oliver Stone's "Talk Radio," which featured a bombastic late-night talk show host sparring with his callers. "The Listener," with its subdued energy, seems to examine America's psyche in a gentler, more intuitive way, akin to a soft-spoken therapist rather than a shock jock. Despite the calm exterior, the same societal ills that Stone and Bogosian exposed still lurk, now just wearing a quieter mask.

Beth's callers are a gallery of the lonely and disillusioned, each grappling with their demons. There's a sardonic war veteran struggling with PTSD and a crumbling marriage, humorously noting the challenge of explaining to his wife why he misses "sleeping in a room full of dudes and guns." Another caller is a young woman, a poet at heart but mentally ill and off her meds because her comedian partner ditched her, leaving her health insurance-less and rattled. She poetically laments, "I have snakes for bones," and whimsically names her brain "Brian...because it's scrambled." A homeless woman, taking refuge in a "cozy two-person tent," and a frighteningly misogynistic young man complete the lineup of Beth's troubled night.

One of the film’s most striking qualities is its frugality with information. It creates mood and narrative with minimal exposition, resembling a theater piece more than a traditional movie. Details about Beth’s life and work drip out slowly, keeping the audience engaged and curious. We don’t even know what kind of service Beth works for, as she explains to one caller that not all who reach out are suicidal, though they all seem perilously close to the edge. The minimalistic approach extends to her work habits—no form-filling, no computer reports, just doodles in her notebook.

Thirty years ago, a film like "The Listener" might have enjoyed a slow, city-by-city art-house rollout before finding a broader audience on home video. Instead, it’s been given a small theater release while simultaneously hitting streaming platforms, forced to compete for attention in a crowded digital landscape. This is a shame because it’s the kind of film that benefits from the immersive focus a theater can provide. On a big screen, the audience can fully surrender to the experience, which is exactly what "The Listener" demands—a film that asks you to engage with both your eyes and ears.