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Edward is running from himself.
Burdened by an extreme facial disfigurement from neurofibromatosis, Edward (Sebastian Stan, wearing impressive prosthetics) lives a nervous life, geared around staying out of the way and diverting attention from himself. He’d like to be an actor, if he could just muster up the confidence to truly nail an audition.
A light enters his life in the form of Ingrid (Renate Reinsve), an aspiring playwright who moves in next-door to his apartment. She’s bubbly and open, seemingly unbothered by his condition. She’s easy to talk to. Unfortunately, she has a boyfriend, but at least she seems to really see Edward.
This early stretch of the film might actually be my favorite. Writer-director Aaron Schimberg, himself a person with a bilateral cleft lip and palate, has a keen sense of not only cinematic language but the intricacies of life with a disfigurement disability. He frames Edward such that he almost feels like an extra in his own scenes, alone and ignored by the people who move around him. Much of his solitary life is shot in long oners, and his direct interactions with others in a shot-reverse-shot style, isolating him in the frame. When Ingrid shows up, the magnetism between them is reflected in a series of two-shots. All of this is rendered with dark, textured authenticity by cinematographer Wyatt Garfield.
Likewise, Schimberg also injects his unique expertise into the script with matter-of-fact, sardonic dialogue about life with a disability. One of the only acting roles Edward has actually gotten was for a training video about how to treat disabled people in the workplace. It’s cartoonishly clumsy and overplays every hypothetical scenario, highlighting the reality that one of the only modes in which Edward is allowed to operate is as a parody of himself.
When an experimental treatment for his condition becomes available, Edward takes the opportunity for a new lease on life. The treatment works well, and quickly—his body begins to shed the growths that obscured his vision and hung over his mouth. After a bloody metamorphosis in front of his bathroom mirror, he’s unrecognizable. Gorgeous, even. A whole new person.
For that matter, why stop at a new face? Why not a whole new identity? Who needs Edward, the mopey sadsack with no prospects? Why not… “Guy?” Guy has looks and confidence. Guy could be an actor. Guy it is.
Guy fabricates a story that Edward killed himself. He lands a new job at a real estate agency and becomes the face of the company. Inspired by Edward’s supposed death, Ingrid writes a play that mirrors the tragedy of his life. Wearing a mask modeled after his former face (given to him by the treatment center as a progress tracker), an emboldened Guy auditions for the role of Edward and gets it.
Things are going great. Until Oswald shows up.
Oswald (Adam Pearson) has the same condition Edward did, though he was never cured. Somehow, he still has all the confidence of someone twice as beautiful as Guy and a natural talent for everything he tries, short of whistling. To boot, he’s endlessly modest and kind to everyone. When he shows up to a rehearsal after seeing the casting call for unique faces, Ingrid is immediately drawn to him. Guy’s role—the role he was born to play—is now threatened.
The story from here on is essentially one long, sick Norm Macdonald joke about the foolishness of seeking happiness and fulfillment in the wrong places—a “grass is always greener” fable wrapped in the specific difficulties of navigating that dilemma when you have a disfigurement. It’s hilarious in how frankly it addresses the tragedies that befall Edward/Guy, and equally painful to watch how he responds.
The most potent choice Schimberg makes in telling this story, and the thing that distinguishes it from similar cautionary tales, is his relentless effort to emphasize every character’s worst qualities. Those we find initially rootable eventually show themselves to be almost insufferably selfish by the end. Ingrid seems like the sweet girl-next-door who sees past Edward’s disfigurement—we come to find out that she’s a narcissist with a fetishistic compulsion to leverage the stories of others for her art. Oswald plays the part of everyone’s friend, but turns out to be a showboat and a weasel who will happily usurp others for his own gain. Even Edward/Guy, the man whose eyes we see the world through, and whom we feel the strongest urge to root for, ultimately lashes out against whatever he deems unfair with excessive resentment and even violence.
And yet not one of them is truly, thoroughly hateable. Schimberg finds an incredibly real, palpable empathy in each character’s complexity. At one point during a discussion about the play, Guy scoffs at the notion that he or his character Edward might be some kind of hero. Indeed, neither one of them is; they are just people, merits and flaws and all—a reality ignored by society’s urge to pigeonhole them as either aspirational or pitiable. Schimberg finds countless opportunities to articulate this truth in small moments throughout.
Stan, Reinsve, and Pearson are phenomenal in communicating the contrasting layers of their characters. The latter half of the film is a well-tuned three-hander that gracefully shows off the talent of this ensemble. It’s a sure contender for Stan’s best performance to date; those watching for Reinsve after her acclaimed turn in The Worst Person in the World will not be disappointed in her first fully English-speaking role; and Pearson ought to be a name that turns heads after his ebullient performance as Oswald. Together, they’re a love-hate throuple for the ages.
If there’s a weak leg of the film, it’s the climactic third act, which feels almost too silly and overblown for the dryly funny and naturalistic 90 minutes that precede it. Even still, Schimberg closes the film on an appropriately macabre note of humorous hysteria.
A Different Man is not a film of easy answers. Complex characters with empathetic struggles are nevertheless shown for all their warts. No one gets away scot-free. Everyone has a vile side. Perhaps that is the lesson: our physical appearance—no matter how beautiful, grotesque, unique, or banal—has no bearing on who we are underneath. At some level or another, we’re all ugly.
No sense running from that.
Wishes he could forego sleep to watch more movies. Besides co-hosting Odd Trilogies and writing reviews, Andy builds Gundam models, loves on his three cats, and spends way too much time managing his Plex server. You can follow his movie-watching habits on Letterboxd.