“I always thought marriage was a type of illness, like chicken pox,” says Richard. His narration establishes what could be a macabre comedy, yet also a portent of dramatic misfortune, and in truth is a little of both. Ira Sachs reaches through a socially turbulent 1940s to poke around the floral prints and beige flannel of domestic propriety: it’s a little bit Douglas Sirk, a little Todd Haynes, though far less successful than either. Tone is the sticking point as the writer/director presents Harry and Pat Allen, an outwardly content couple. Pat loves Harry, but Harry loves the much younger Kay. Rather than see his wife suffer, he decides to kill her.

The gallows humour at the core of this duplicitous business doesn’t save what should be an enjoyably buttoned-down story about lies, adultery and murder. Instead, the film falters on a line between black comedy and romantic melodrama. This variability makes the plight of Sachs’ characters like something you might overhear on a train: evoking curiosity yet largely devoid of personal involvement. Despite solid performances and appealing design, Married Life prefers to shuffle the deck rather than play its hand.

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