“It could be better.” This is the final line of Kris Rey’s I Used To Go Here, as though to goad its audience in a meta fashion by “subliminally” alluding to the film itself. The “it” Kate Conklin (Gillian Jacobs) is referring to, in this case, is her new book, Seasons Passed, and yet, the sentiment seems to also suggest that she as a person, as well as the circumstances of her life, could be better too. Of course, what many like to believe/argue is that one’s circumstances can always be improved once they improve themselves. And yet, it seems a catch-22–for how can one really be compelled to “make a change” within themselves when so much has conspired to land them in their present situation in the first place?
Rey (born Kristin Williams), recently divorced from fellow microbudget filmmaker Joe Swanberg (who collaborated with Dave Franco on The Rental, released earlier this summer), sets the stage of her narrative amid “Illinois University”–modeled after Southern Illinois University in Carbondale. Not exactly the most “on the map” place to the layman, but with intention behind the choice for wielding it as the primary milieu. Yes, the motive for Rey in setting the movie there stems from the fact that she went to the school herself, and likely wanted to evoke for viewers unfamiliar with it the same magic, the same “coming of age” feel that the town is supposed to have. Filled with its picturesque streets where every Victorian-style house appears to have a deluxe porch (these houses also serve as “dorms”), there is a certain “alternate universe New England” vibe to the environment. The one Kate never would have imagined herself returning to after fifteen years away. In the interim, she’s been in the de facto “big city” of Chicago, where the engagement to her fiancé, Michael (Declan Deely), fell apart and she’s been left to pick up the occasional debris–like the mail that keeps coming to their once shared apartment. Even if it’s only bullshit mail, namely a credit offer, Kate still uses it as an excuse to reach out to him again, hoping he’ll finally respond one of these days.
The demise of her relationship might be easier to handle if things with her new book release were going better. Called Seasons Passed, with an equally as trite cover to match the title, Kate gets a call from her agents telling her that the publisher has decided to drop the scheduled book tour after seeing the abysmal sales. Kate feels this is in direct opposition to the idea of actually being able to sell more copies, but has no choice but to accept her fate–and that she’s delivered what amounts to a stillbirth. This metaphor is accented when Kate shows up to a joint baby shower for her best friend, Laura (Zoe Chao), where she’s told to pose with the rest of the expectant mothers, clutching her book as her “baby” to pose with instead of her actual stomach. It’s an all too real moment–the one in which Kate seems to apprehend that she’s chosen a “certain path”–the artist’s life–and she can’t turn back on it now.
It would be more reassuring to be on that path if things were going at least slightly better with the reception of her novel. Which is why she jumps at the chance to return to her alma mater for a reading when asked to by her former literature professor, David Kirkpatrick (Jemaine Clement). Her delivery is lukewarm, and so is the reaction, crystallized by David’s wife, Alexis (Kristina Valada-Viars), confirming she didn’t really “connect” with the material. It all leads her into a spiral down the rabbit hole. One that makes it more appealing to embroil herself in the drama of a group of current students, the ringleader being Hugo (Josh Wiggins), whose girlfriend, April (Hannah Marks), appears to have fallen into the same “teacher’s pet” role that Kate was once in with David. Only Kate never was actually able to cross “the line.”
Highlighting the go-to haunts of the town, including PK’s (whose claim to fame is Joan Baez signing the bathroom wall) and Longbranch–with a quick mention of Jimmy John’s rather than an interior shot of it–it’s clear that Rey still has a fondness for the place that helped to shape her during her creative beginnings. Alas, it seems to come from too much of a place of forced profundity. Rather than capturing a “feeling” about the place, the film is more of an exegesis on how one will never be as carefree as they are when they’re in college, no matter how many problems they think they have in that moment.
Coming back has only made Kate realize that her time in Carbondale was a peak, which is perhaps why she tries so hard to cling to it. After a night at Hugo’s party (in the house she used to live in), she is loaned an Illinois University Orientation shirt with the tagline on the back that reads, “Your future starts now.” Kate very much wishes that was still the case. That she could perhaps do it all again, and better. With more courage. Even with regard to having the strength not to say yes to Michael when he proposed just because that was “the thing to do.”
The same day after the party, Hugo and his friends invite Kate to come to the lake (lake-going being the other primary activity besides partying and going to PK’s) with them. Because why not? Any almuna of the university is surely a friend. As they swim together away from the others, Hugo compliments her on an essay she wrote while in school about her brother’s death and how it didn’t change the fact that he was still an asshole, regardless of being rigor mortis. She shrugs that even though she knew it was good, it didn’t really pan out for her. “I think it was too sad or something. Made people uncomfortable.” This, too, is meant to allude to the story of the movie itself, as though to cover Rey from any “wrongdoing” if someone doesn’t think the film is as “poignant” as she seems to think it is.
Later, Hugo reminds her again that the essay, possibly her best work, was indeed very sad. Which is probably why it possessed the honesty to make it good. But there is no honesty in I Used To Go Here. Only contrivances. Incidentally, it is the review from The New York Times–Kate’s one final hope for the book to get a boost–that best describes the film: “amateurish effort,” “saccharine emotions,” “thinly veiled attempts,” “pretentious prose,” “laughable motivation,” “aimless,” “insipid,” “boring” and finally, the coup de grâce, “terrible cover.” And yeah, the poster for I Used To Go Here isn’t great. So it is that the review title, “Seasons Passed Can Be Passed,” can be translated to “I Used To Go Here: No One Cares.” With David trying to comfort her via the assurance, “Critics are the worst kind of human” (guilty as charged, if it means unabashed honesty is being the “worst”), Kate can’t shake the feeling that he’s an utter bullshitter–a complete phony.
As Gillian Jacobs tries her best to carry the script on her back by using the same character nuances she used for Mickey in Netflix’s Love, it’s not enough to make the events of the film cohesive, strung together as a loose soap opera without at least having the benefit of some liveliness and over the top reactions.
In one of the final scenes, Hugo, who has clearly been angling for this since he and Kate met, uses the ultimate “let’s bang” logic by offering, “You know, I’ve been thinking, just because a connection with a person doesn’t last forever, doesn’t mean it’s not real.” This is most certainly too eloquent a way for a Carbondale fuckboy to speak.
Having “discovered” something about herself after pulling a Mrs. Robinson maneuver, she admits to Hugo’s girlfriend that she wrote a shitty book because: “I was afraid to fail and then I did fail…,” further remarking on her jealousy of April, “It’s like all possibility for you and I’ve already fucked up.” One supposes this accounts for a large part of the reason behind why she would choose to glom onto this group of youths as some sort of numbing agent for the real world back in Chicago. And yet, one can’t stay in the Neverland of Carbondale forever, overtly an oasis for those “at a certain time” in their lives. Because saying “I used to go here” as you find yourself being the overtly middle-aged person at the college bar isn’t exactly a cute look. If nothing else, at least I Used To Go Here gets that message across. Though yes, “it could be better.”
