Me and You and Everyone We Know (2005)

Me and You and Everyone We Know is special because it treats everyday loneliness like something both heartbreaking and quietly hilarious, finding poetry in the awkward pauses where most movies rush to fill the silence. Miranda July’s world has a handmade, offbeat glow—part deadpan comedy, part tender ache—as a wounded single dad and a drifting artist-cabbie circle connection with the kind of tentative bravery that feels almost too real. It’s witty in the way people are witty when they’re nervous, and profound in the way small gestures can suddenly crack open big feelings, all without announcing itself as “important.” If you need a conventional rom-com rhythm or slick realism, it may feel strange and slight, but if you’re open to something original and disarmingly human, it lingers like a private revelation.

Me and You and Everyone We Know is aiming for a tender, offbeat snapshot of modern loneliness—awkward romance, kids fumbling toward adulthood, and strangers trying to connect in small, strange ways. When it works, it’s quietly sweet and observant, with a handmade indie charm and a few moments that feel genuinely human. But the same quirkiness can read as forced and self-satisfied, and the story wanders in a fragmented, vignette-heavy way that can feel more like a collection of odd scenes than a gripping narrative. If you don’t enjoy “look how quirky life is” indie humor, have a low tolerance for cutesy affectation, or are put off by uncomfortable sexual-adjacent material involving kids, this one may feel boring at best and off-putting at worst.