Me, You and Everyone We Know is resolutely small-scaled and observational, picking out odd details and savoring tiny jokes. But it also carries a surprisingly strong emotional undercurrent. Hawke's thin, crooked face and worried blue eyes register just how lost Richard has become, and Christine, who at first seems both appealingly nerdy and a little passive-aggressive, shares with July a deftly camouflaged determination to get what she wants.
In the character's case, this is love and a measure of recognition; in the filmmaker's case, well, perhaps the same. Everyone we know may not respond to her flirtation, which manages to be both brazen and coy. Her provocations may strike some people as overly cute and her self-consciousness as a tiresome form of solipsism. But Me and You and Everyone We Know is brave enough to risk this rejection, and generous enough not to deserve it. I like it very much and I hope you will, too.
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