"A Real Pain" Review: Minimalist Filmmaking At Its (Almost) Finest

Kieran Culkin shines in this beautiful story about love, pain, and forgiveness.

January 29, 2025

In life, we frequently debate principles, usually when trying to force everyone around us to bend to ones that serve our immediate needs. We must learn to forgive… except for that jackass who cut us off on the highway. We must condemn wrongdoers… unless we do wrong, in which case, let’s rope back around to that whole forgiveness thing.

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Young people can change; don’t write someone off for the mistakes of their youth... except that prissy little bitch who called your daughter pudgy. She can rot in hell.

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One of the many principles we dispute is that less is more. For many, more is more; the more more you have, the better off you’ll be. Money can buy happiness; your bedpost could use more notches; your house could be bigger; who doesn’t want one more kid or dog or cat or car?

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In movies, this principle is not debatable. Sure, people have found roaring success by leaning into more, but that fire fades quickly; those films rarely age well.

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Yet, so many filmmakers, caring more for their egos than their stories, insist on more. It makes the occasions when one recognizes that less is more refreshing. Interestingly, sometimes those movies challenge the principle despite their conceptual use yielding good results.

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A Real Pain is one such film.

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How does it uphold the principle? Jesse Eisenberg trusts his screenplay and those bringing it to life. The film could easily have overreached. We have the Jewish experience, personal loss, a suicide attempt, and a fractured familial bond. In modern times, when everyone is clamoring to champion causes, usually by exploiting them for clout rather than addressing them sincerely, these things would be ripe for self-righteous plucking. Instead, Eiseinberg’s screenplay is uniquely sincere in a way. Eisenberg has been open about the parallels between him and his character, who has OCD and envies the unabashedness with which his character David’s cousin, Benji, approaches life.

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As David sits in a Polish restaurant, having watched Benji upend the traditionalism of the Holocaust tour on which they’ve embarked as part of a pilgrimage to their deceased grandmother’s childhood home, he shares this reality with his tour-mates. Benji has all the lust for life that David lacks. He’s vibrant and free and lights up a room. He makes a true impact and elicits heartfelt, grateful goodbyes instead of a simple "farewell" like the one David gets from the tour guide when they separate. How can someone like that overdose on sleeping pills? How can someone so full of life want to die?

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Truthfully, that speech is arguably the one time the film betrays its “less is more” approach and spells things out plainly, but the content of that moment, harmful deviation though it may be, makes A Real Pain worthy. If you’re a structured introvert like David, it’s exponentially tougher to make an impact on people. You don't defy convention or vocalize every thought. You toe the line and keep yourself in check, thus maintaining the peace you hold sacred.

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Unfortunately, as much as we espouse those ideals to maintain social order, it’s the Benji types: uninhibited, constantly disarming people, and refusing to let themselves feel obligated by anything or anyone, that generally resonate. However, they need real depth and substance to do so. Anyone can play a Golden Retriever and leave a positive impression. Benji shows their fellow tour guests, whether it be Rwandan Jewish convert Eloge, divorcee Marcia, or tour guide James, that incessant ability to drill his way in and navigate with genuine meaning.

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Yet, what we often fail to realize about those “light up a room” types is that there's a real pain underneath them. It doesn’tmean their persona is a veneer. David has always envied Benji, and dismissing his personality as a means to cope is condescending. Benji is who he is, and that’s just as true of everything we see as everything we discover. Benji is a light, a visceral but uniquely pleasant memory. He is also a damaged man, broken and in pain. Multiple things can be true simultaneously.

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As David and Benji repeatedly challenge each other, Eisenberg displays an intimate knowledge of both, delivering a vital vulnerability. Not only is he allowing us inside his mind through David’s anguish at nearly losing his beloved cousin and general perception of their differences, but by being introspective enough to investigate just why he’s so envious of Benji and those like him, he’s given Benji credit, validation as a real person, not a plot device. Culkin is remarkable at respecting that introspection by creating a wholly unique character.

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Yes, many have noted similarities to Succession’s Roman Roy, but Culkin repeatedly distinguishes Benji. It’s in that little lean as he looks at a stranger’s phone at the end and the subtle facial inflections as he talks with David on the rooftop. These two men truly know and respect these characters and what they have to say about all the things we try to discuss through film but routinely fail to illuminate.

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A Real Pain knows that we preach about mental illness but treat everyone afflicted as nothing more than what they have. You could "fix" Benji and it wouldn’t matter. He still feels hurt. Why doesn’t David visit him? Why doesn’t he care about him anymore?

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David’s correct that coming to New York to the family man is more practical than David periodically returning to their small town, but it’s not about that. Benji needs to know David cares. Sometimes, that means giving someone what they need, even if it doesn’t make sense. Sometimes, it means recognizing that, even if it doesn’t make sense, even to them, they need it anyway. Conversely, David can’t budge without doing even more for his cousin than he has already or compromising too much of himself. He may envy Benji, but he’s still his own person. Benji can't change his needs, but David is correct to hold his ground.

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This relational nuance makes A Real Pain a moving film at its highest highs, but Eisenberg’s direction and screenplay don’t always go for the gold. The man’s restraint is admirable and necessary, but when you manage such restraint, you give yourself license to go further. Culkin’s genius gives the illusion of this, but he helps Eisenberg’s efforts come to life in a way they wouldn’t on their own.

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In that rooftop conversation, something's missing. Not anything akin to the dinner table speech, but something that feels like these two men, clearly bruised and battered by emotions they’re both struggling to embrace and understand, take that step. It’s there in small doses, but there could’ve been more. Sometimes, we devote ourselves so wholly to doing more with less we forget to sprinkle some of Mae West’s adage: “Too much of a good thing is wonderful,” especially in the hands of a talent like Culkin.

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Regardless, everyone should see A Real Pain. If you’re the life of the party and unapologetically yourself but are generally avoidant and deeply sensitive to those you love most, you need to see Benji. If you’re intensely introverted and compulsive and feel helplessly anxious in the face of zanier personalities while struggling to share how overwhelmingly you admire and adore your loved ones, meet David. If you're either a Benji or a David and have a special someone, whether parent, sibling, spouse, friend, or cousin, that perfectly embodies the other, and you wish you could vocalize all the feelings you’ve always had but have never been able to define or express, watch this movie. With all its less, it’ll help you understand so much more.