The illicit affair story takes on a new spin in Yes, by writer-director Sarah Potter.  A married American woman (Joan Allen) being involved with a Middle-Eastern man (Simon Abkarian) is just one aspect of it.  Another is the excessive amount of varying styles in dialogue and narration that come across as eccentric rather than artsy.  Potter’s background as a lyricist is her defense for the manner of writing.  But instead of transcending the script, the story is stifled by the styles.  Even though veterans Allen and Sam Neill (as Allen’s politician husband) give strong emotional performances, and Abkarian as the passionate and charming Lebanese lover, it is not enough.

For starters, Yes has an on-screen observer/commentator. The maid, played by Shirley Henderson, professes to see and know all that’s going on in the household.  She dispenses philosophical comments on the irreparably fractured marriage between Allen and Neill (the reason never delved into), their daily routines (how they arrange not to be home at the same time) and their (flawed) personal characters.  The fourth wall is also broken by two janitors, but unlike Henderson they merely give incredulous looks at the camera – at us – and say nothing.  Presumably, it is intended to associate them with Henderson as observers to the drama while being in its story.

Getting used to the sonnet-style dialogue ala poetry recitation is a challenge.  Allen and Abkarian’s lines are heavily laced with it.  Abkarian’s colleagues banter him in similar rhymes and rap.  You wonder whether their ill-feelings towards him stems from his ethnic and religious background or him simply being the better poet (rapper) than them.  The distinct mannerism makes it sound unnatural, and after a while annoying.  Allen’s atheist socialist aunt, played by Sheila Hancock, is especially aggravating.  She speaks at a breathtaking pace, without pause or restraint, despite her character being near death in the hospital.  Why she is given volumes of material to talk about when her screen time and screen significance is far too scant for anyone to care what she has to say.  Her spiel is quickly forgotten after she dies.

Potter sets up the spoken dialogue and the voiceover as a complimentary couple where one finishes the other’s sentences in smooth transitions.  In a way, it keeps audiences in tune with the characters’ thoughts when they are not seen speaking.  However, its prevalent presence makes it a cliché and unreal.  Another cliché is the use of slow-shuttle photography to signify the two leads’ sense of isolation.  This is not as bad as the stylized dialogue and narration, since the slow-shuttle effect is non-vocal and does not aggravate the ears.

It seems that Potter relies too much on styles and pegs the script material to them.  As such, they take the spotlight and relegate the story to a supporting role.  The love affair is detached and insipid – Allen and Abkarian’s philosophical musings does not compensate.  Is it necessary for everyone to do a voiceover narration, even those who do not have significant roles (like Hancock’s character)?  The poetry-style dialogue would not be an issue if every character speaks that way instead of just the two leads. Not to be cruel, but the best moments in the film are the ones with no dialogue.  Sadly, there aren’t enough of them to make up for it.

There is little reason to care for the supporting characters.  Their screen time is brief and they do not have sufficient dimensions.  Allen’s best female friend (Samantha Bond) is her rival for the “my life sucks more than yours” distinction.  (Her true motivation is revealed towards the end of the film, and sheds some clue to Allen and Neill’s fractured marriage.)  Allen’s goddaughter Grace (Stephanie Leonidas) suffers from the celebrity complex.  Despite her physical beauty, she feels that she is ugly and her only goal in life is to be famous.  Allen’s aunt, as already mentioned, is largely aggravating even in death.  The maid’s role as observer/commentator is distracting and not insightful enough.