the uncompromising nudity bared throughout petrice chereau's intimacy has already garnered much notoriety , but it's in the naked faces of fearless actors mark rylance ( angels & insects ) and kerry fox ( welcome to sarajevo ) that the tender ache of emotional resonance is discovered . with sharp , intelligent eyes that reflect experience and maturity , rylance and fox are refreshingly detached from the false glamour of hollywood idols . their sex scenes together are bracing in their raw honesty , in the acceptance of flesh and messiness . less apparent , but no less remarkable , are the astute observations of behavior revealed through those carnal beats of haste and hesitance , often without a single line of dialogue . not aiming for the spiritual poetry of in the realm of the senses or the philosophical transgressions of crash , chereau keeps his sexual odyssey firmly grounded in terms of straightforward character development . that may be the very reason why intimacy seems unerringly impressive but never particularly significant on more than a tactile , sensory level . the themes of human isolation are barren and obvious , a science project devoid of any especially groundbreaking hypothesis . intimacy does manage to stand out from lesser portraits of " human interconnectedness " and pinter-esque rummages through psychological dirty drawers ( okay , kill me ) . shallow though it might sound , it's amazing how much is filled in through an inspired cast , perceptive camerawork , and imaginative ways of treating the love scene . those ingredients are too assured and confident to merely dismiss as icing on the cake , especially since they are the substance of the cake itself . adapted from a pair of short stories by british novelist hanif kureishi , intimacy weaves desperate lovemaking between two strangers in london . every wednesday , jay ( rylance ) and claire ( fox ) meet in his cluttered , dank apartment for an hour or two of sexual release from their uninspired lives . he's been head bartender at a posh restaurant for over six years . she's a mystery to him but her glum workaday appearance reveals a similar dissatisfaction . they're both married , but his relationship has curdled into an embittered separation . as the weeks draw on , jay obsessively takes it upon himself to uncover claire's personal routines . in his attempt to gain a fuller semblance of who she is , he opens wounds that hadn't existed before by single-handedly corrupting the fantasy . if it weren't for a few unnecessary subplots involving jay's brother and his bevy of disgruntled co-workers , this minimalist premise might be described as a modern fable on the perils of wish fulfillment . chareau's restless camera ( once again wielded by superb and ever-attentive cinematographer eric gautier ) is less appropriate here than in his family transit-oriented those who love me can take the train . the scenes that linger are the still ones where rylance and fox separately , pensively attempt to carry on with their makeshift household routines . these are often captured in lingering , unblinking wide shots that view them stranded amidst their drab workplaces and homes . separation proves haunting in a melancholy series of intercut shots as rylance and fox undress on opposite sides of the room , crawling across the floor to meet in the center . despite being as restless as a fly during the hyperactive restaurant scenes ( all the better to blend in with a hustling crowd of gabby trendsetters ) , you'd be hard pressed to find a single uninteresting image . intimacy takes an interest in its sordid world of the lower-middle class , with lonely pubs and busy shopping streets -- it also understands the people who inhabit those spaces , viewing them with sympathy scraped raw . an evaluation would be incomplete without highlighting the great timothy spall ( the robust scene-stealer of many a mike leigh collaboration ) . as claire's cuckolded husband , this jocular heavyweight plays out his handful of bitter pill scenes with the unforced menace and self-effacing embarrassment of his imposing bulk . bangs in his eyes , his mouth forming into quizzical pouts and dry smirks , he may seem the fool in his barroom encounters opposite a sarcastic , gleaming mark rylance ( whose jay has arrived on the scene looking to stir up some trouble ) , but spall is no one to trifle with . his overreaching best pal demeanor suggests a mind abuzz with secret passageways of guile , his pointed questions only naïve if you choose not to read into their crafty insinuations . in his unassuming way , spall's carefully etched interpretation of hostility buried under a mountain of surface propriety may become one of the most criminally underappreciated performances of the year , but maybe also one of the best . he's that good . 
