âHow do people meet each other?â the director J. J. Kandel asked me, bluntly. âHow do you meet people?â The most common answers might be on the apps, at a bar, or from an audacious slide into the D.M.s. The protagonists of Kandelâs short film, âSparring Partner,â however, met in a more classic venue, one that is a minefield of potentially inappropriate outcomes and tricky power dynamics: the office. âThe fact is, at work, these are the people youâre around all the time,â Kandel continued. âThings happen.â In âSparring Partner,â we see a pair of co-workers, played by KeiLyn Durrel Jones and Cecily Strong, in a park, on their lunch break. Theyâre sitting on a bench, reading fortune-cookie prophecies, deliciously, maybe even purposely, isolated. Theyâre looking out onto a beautiful autumnal vista, and they themselves are beautiful together. They have the flirtatious push and pull of a couple that hasnât yet dared to utter the words âI like youâ but the fizzy tension of one that may, at any second. Itâs an idyllic imageâthe man and the woman on the benchâor at least it would be if he werenât her boss, if he werenât married, if she werenât in so deep, if he werenât, either.
Written by Neil LaBute, the author of the Tony-nominated play âReasons to Be Pretty,â âSparring Partnerâ challenges the audience to reconsider their ideas of right and wrong, and to determine where the line between the two is positioned, if there even is a line at all. Kandel knew that some viewers would disapprove of this particular brand of office liaison, but his goal was to have them feel for the fictional couple, anyway. âThe general note to everyone on that set was: we want to be rooting for these guys,â he told me. âIn a weird way, you want to say, âOh, theyâre meant to be togetherââlike, forget about all the stuff on paper that makes that almost impossible, complicated, whatever you want to call it.â To achieve this, he films the couple nonjudgmentally: at first, from a safe distance, with no abrupt movements, âlike one of those nature shows,â as Kandel put it. And, from afar, things donât look that bad. The man and the woman are so charmingâto each other, and to us, the audienceâthat itâs simple to justify their presence on that bench. Until, alas, itâs not. The camera has crept in closer, and we are no longer viewers but voyeurs.
The woman doesnât tell the man âI like youâ in so few words, but she does make her feelings known. (She gives him the olâ âSo, I have this friendâ razzle-dazzle.) Suddenly, their fizzy tension dissipates into stillness, the sparkle of ambiguity transforming into a stodgy reality. âWe should probably get off this subject,â he tells her, visibly unnerved, after she recounts her âfriendâsâ crush on a co-worker. But a hasty topic change canât put sand back in an hourglass that has exploded, and the woman canât take back her words.
The couple is so watchable and so relatable, though they may be hard to watch, and one may not want to fess up to the relatability of their situation. But love is ignorant to the minutiae of its inception. It doesnât matter if you meet your person at a bar or through an app or at the one place where you spend most of your waking hours. It doesnât even matter if the connection is one that is rom-com orthodox or socially verboten. Relationships somehow always find a way to be devouring and belittling and downright irresponsible, regardless of who is in them or how they got there. The question of how people meet is integral to âSparring Partnerâ âs premise, but the conundrum at the heart of the film asks something even more difficult: âAnd then what?â