Xanadu

Dir. Robert Greenwald, 1980



It is difficult to explain the appeal of musicals to someone who is either unfamiliar with the medium, not particularly receptive to it, or socially conditioned to believe it is stupid and therefore a waste of time. Musicals contain a unique intersection of whimsy, improbability, hokeyness and entertainment that may seem overwhelming, though one or two of those elements at a time may be perfectly manageable. Fundamentally, musicals exist as a fantastic diversion from reality to a world where everyone knows the words and the dances, or to provide a unique perspective on a social issue placed in an operatic context. For some, it just doesn't work. For me, however, it is the ultimate guilty pleasure.

I had heard about Xanadu multiple times from my old friend, the internet, usually in a joke about bad acting, Olivia Newton John, or having hair reminiscent of a sex toy. Yes, the movie contains all of these things. It is a fabulous display of the 1980's view of modernity and the classics, mixed with recurring roller skating and sass talk. Simply put, Sonny (Michael Beck) is an unsuccessful painter who runs into Kira (Olivia Newton John) when contemplating the purpose of his life. Kira turns out to be one of the Greek muses, and helps Sonny and his geriatric friend Danny (THE Gene Kelly) create a time-warping nightclub called Xanadu. Kira then argues with her parents (presumably Zeus and Hera) and gets to stay on earth forever and ever to be with Sonny. The end, hallelujah.

But the genius is in the details. As I was watching this ridiculous film (streaming from IMDb - and you can too!), I was overcome with a rush like the first time I saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show or Plan 9 From Outer Space: I was witnessing immortalized camp. This was a cultural milestone, completely comfortable in its relative mediocrity, striving for one kind of success but achieving another entirely. Did the filmmakers know that they were creating a terrible movie? I'm inclined to think not, but they did know that Olivia Newton John would essentially carry the movie on her own, and she is a rather flimsy actress. Did they know that it would not only become a cult classic, but an icon of gay culture? Surely not.

The swanky Sonny, who backtalks his boss, is apparently a babe magnet, and meets music legends on the beach, is not as attractive as he is a good backdrop for Kira and her glowing blonde hair. Perhaps he was meant to be a heartthrob for female viewers, and I can't say how many women in 1980 were actually attracted to him, but to me, he was far too reminiscent of Andy Samberg. It's really all about Olivia. She doesn't have the sassy fabulousness of Dr. Frankenfurter or other cult legends, but her magnetic singing voice and Australian charm is enough for some. She beams with sparkling white teeth, roller skates around in chaste white dress and ribbons in her hair, and in the final scene, where she sings the award-winning song "Xanadu," she makes an astonishing 4 costume changes spanning from disco queen to her childish Muse getup.



What really immortalizes Xanadu are the weird, avant-garde moments. There is a scene when they are preparing for the club Xanadu's opening night, and Gene Kelly goes to a trendy clothing shop to try on some sharp new duds. The music montage involves the height of early 80's fashion, and some strange items that nobody has probably ever worn, including the above spiderweb-themed cocktail dresses and catsuits. In another scene, there is a battle of the bands between a 1940's-style swing group and an extremely of-the-minute synth rock band, complete with Devo-esque jumpsuits and flailing limbs. At first, it seems a discordant melange marked by completely different styles of suggestive dancing and sequins, but then the two musical styles blend together so perfectly that one begins to believe that maybe these guys actually had something in mind when they orchestrated that weird, weird scene.

This is not a movie that you either like or don't like. You either love it or you think it's crap. Or both! I fully realize that it is a crappy movie, utter crap, but it is so great. All parties involved act atrociously, and the million-plus dollars they spent on the Xanadu club set was largely wasted, because it really just looked like a gratuitous birthday cake of a set with blinking lights and rotating stages. But at the same time, there are moments of bizarre genius that make it all so glorious. It truly deserves the cult status that it has attained, and was truly enjoyable to watch, in all of its campy glory.

Female Trouble

Dir. John Waters, 1974



Female Trouble was John Waters' follow-up film to Pink Flamingos, and he employs largely the same cast in similar roles. What differentiates the two films are their focus: Pink Flamingos is clearly about the lows of society and the limitations of cinema and decency, whereas Female Trouble is a feminist film, crassly defending the struggle of women through over-the-top scenarios. It's comical, but the notion is out there that views of women are somewhat tainted by societal norms rather than the content of women's character.

Divine again plays the heroine, Dawn Davenport, a juvenile delinquent who gets knocked up by Earl (also played by Divine; a funny "go fuck yourself" moment) and runs away to Baltimore. There she pays her dues to society starting off as a waitress, then a burlesque dancer, and finally a prostitute and petty thief. She leads a miserable single life with her irritable child, Taffy (played by Mink Stole, whom I love more daily), until she marries Gater, a straight hairdresser who lives next door with his heterophobic Aunt Ida (the inimitable Edith Massey). Then, she is miserable and married with only her ostentatious salon hairstyles to make her happy.



The owners of the hair salon, the Dashers, take notice of Dawn's "unique" beauty and make an offer for her to model for them while enhancing her loveliness with criminal behavior. The Dashers photograph Dawn while she robs houses, beats her daughter, and breaks things in her house. When she kicks Gater out of the house, Aunt Ida comes storming in and throws acid into Dawn's face. She is terribly disfigured, but the Dashers believe this only adds to her beauty. They book her a performing gig where she executes all kinds of repulsive acts, including rubbing dead fish on herself and shooting a member of the audience. Dawn is so wrapped up in her fame and notoriety that she crows about her infamy through her friends' treachery and her eventual dismal end.

Waters holds the female condition near to his heart in this film. At the start, audiences will identify with Dawn as she sasses back to her teacher, smokes in the bathroom, and throws a tantrum when she doesn't get cha-cha heels for Christmas. As she struggles to make ends meet doing a variety of odd (and odder) jobs, the audience may feel sympathy for her. Only when the typical vulgarity of Divine's persona starts to shine through do audiences realize that this has all been a ruse to conjure up some feelings for Dawn Davenport before exploiting her before wealthy opportunists and the media circus. Were it not for Divine's extra-cinematic fame, the audience might have fully invested in the well-being of this girl, but because it is also a cynical romp, we are one step removed.



As this removed audience, even though we feel for Dawn, we still want to know what kind of hijinks she gets into, and we hope to be wowed, grossed out, and offended. Dawn will always remain more an object than a true female heroine, a vehicle for humiliation more than a figure living the American dream. But while audiences of the 1970's could detach from this film as fiction, it was a time when women were still seen as objects for men's amusement, and didn't garner the same respect as men in social issues and the workplace. Feminism had taken huge strides since the early 1960's, but there was still domestic inequity and, to this day, women get paid less than men for comparable jobs.

Perhaps Waters' message was intentional, perhaps not. I have heard him speak, however, and he is quite an intelligent person, so I would not deny him that insight. He is cited as having his finger on the pulse of contemporary society, and of understanding the basest aspects of human nature better than most. Female Trouble might seem like an ironic title at first, but it is very particularly selected. The troubles don't necessarily belong to the main female in the film, rather, it is about the trouble people have with reconciling females as equal citizens, and the disconnect between realizing that the objectification of a film character may not be so different from someone's home situation.

Tropic Thunder

Dir. Ben Stiller, 2008



Dear Ben Stiller,

I must congratulate you on your triumphant return to cinema after your last film, The Heartbreak Kid, which earned a Rotten Tomatoes score of 30%. Your recent run of movies has been pretty uninteresting and uninspiring, which is the most polite way to put it. In fact, not since Keeping the Faith has the idea of you being in a movie not totally turned me off to the point of revulsion. When I heard you actually directed Tropic Thunder, I was pretty surprised. Not very optimistic, but surprised.

I consider your best work to be the stoic Chas Tenenbaum, whose humor came from the completely deadpan delivery of your comically tragic lines. This works so well for you, and you did it again in the aforementioned Keeping the Faith, although it was not nearly as good a movie. So with Tropic Thunder, even though your role is anything but subtle, you finally own up to the goofball throwaway actor that you actually appear to be most of the time. (I am sorry, but your father is a lot funnier.) In this film, you seem to embrace your own mediocrity and to the role that you inevitably play in the Hollywood circus: the clown.

Tropic Thunder did not look like a good film at first glance. In fact, after seeing the trailer about twenty times, I was convinced it was the next of a string of disposable gross-out humor flicks like the Farrelly Brothers are prone to making. It was only after people that I truly respected said that it was actually a funny movie, full of Hollywood inside jokes, that I came to look at it differently. I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was actually a very detailed satire of the Hollywood machine, a very complex set up with every stereotype imaginable illustrated in unforgiving clarity. Right off the bat, with the fake movie trailers for actors Tugg Speedman, Kirk Lazarus and Jeff Portnoy, the scene is set for the audience to take in the spectacle of a good, old-fashioned parody.

Seeing this movie so soon after Hamlet 2 was weird and gratifying, because I had just described Steve Coogan's career of self-deprecating roles. In this film, he plays another such loser, a weak first-time director on an out of control movie set. Robert Downey, Jr., as Kirk Lazarus, the Australian, multi-Oscar winning method actor is brilliant, as is Brandon Jackson as Alpa Chino, the rap artist-turned-actor who is at constant odds with Lazarus who is portraying an African-American soldier. Jack Black is still annoying, although here it works, since his character is an annoying comedy actor of vulgar proportions. But it is you, Ben Stiller, as Tugg Speedman, the lousy action star who finds his inner dramatic actor, who makes an interesting point.

You really do play two roles, Ben Stiller. Sometimes you are Tugg, even though you do not actually have the career of an action star, though Tugg's struggle to win an Oscar and prevent himself from going "full retard" might very well be your own struggle. But your role as yourself is substantially present as well. Your name is sloshed around the credits far too generously, even if you did put a lot of work into it. The credits for director, writer, producer, and actor are surely merited, but is it really necessary to top it all off with "A Ben Stiller Film?" I would argue that it is necessary if the point you are making is that the farce continues into real life as well. Having gratuitous credits is very much the M.O. of an overblown egomaniac. Which I would not be surprised to learn that you are.

In sum, the film is a fine one. It is funny and clever, possibly too clever for its own good. I loved most things about it, though there is an obvious over-the-top-ness that will never be absent from films starring you, Jack Black, and Danny McBride (who also does a good job, and is much less annoying than in Pineapple Express). War films are sacred in Hollywood, and it was a clever setting for the ultimate "in-your-face!" gag. At times your douchery was a bit strong, and if I never hear Jack Black make another oral sex joke again, I would be all too pleased. So carry on, and stop returning the Farrelly brothers' phone calls. It'll do you some good.

Hamlet 2

Dir. Andrew Fleming, 2008



This movie. Let me tell you about this movie. There is so much to say, and even though I saw this five days ago, I am still forming the words because this movie just evokes such a range of emotions from me. To save you from reading all the way through before getting to my final conclusion (which I may change my mind about once I get to the end of this article) I should say that I loved it. Not every minute of it, but it is so brilliant. I was pretty lucky to have seen no trailers, no posters, and to go into the film with only the slightest hint of what it was about, plus riding my fascination with Steve Coogan's career.

Steve Coogan is an actor who is charmingly aware of his irrelevance in the entertainment world, and of the overblown importance that we give to the entertainment field. The projects he chooses often feature him playing himself, but a loser version with an inflated sense of self-importance. That, or a character with the apparent awareness that he is a parody of himself. In 24 Hour Party People, Coogan plays a Tony Wilson (legendary record label owner) that is constantly talking to the camera about his portrayal of the real events in the film. In Tristram Shandy, he plays himself as the star of the film based on the un-filmable novel, and is the admittedly weakest member of the cast. These examples from his filmography are a major reason why I was so attracted to this film, and would not rest until I saw it.

In Hamlet 2, Coogan plays Dana Marschz, a washed up "actor" teaching drama in Tucson, AZ. The first minutes of the film show some footage of commercials from Marschz's erstwhile career with Coogan's giant toothy grin hawking the Magic Bullet and herpes medication, paired with dramatic voice-over by someone who sounds exactly like Jeremy Irons. It starts the film off with such a bang that I nearly squealed with excitement at what greatness I could be witnessing. Rather than simply teaching drama to a couple of schmaltzy, overeager thespians, some disaffected roughs join the class because of the dissolution of elective programs due to budget cuts. At the provocation of a wry sophomore journalist, Marschz decides to put on an original play rather than an adapted one (the last of which was Erin Brockovich), and reinvents Hamlet with time travel, forgiveness, Jesus, and musical numbers involving the harrowing experience of getting raped in the face. (It's about his relationship with his father.) Needless to say, nobody wants him to put this show on, and staging it becomes a struggle of epic proportions.

Abortions of cinema like Meet the Spartans ultimately fail because the filmmakers don't understand the line between imitation and parody. Movies of that kind simply imitate other films, piling pop-culture references upon each other until the result is a completely meaningless string of profanity and gross-out "humor." Hamlet 2 is an excellent example of parody gone so, so right. The film pokes fun at the Inspirational Teacher movie so blatantly that Marschz tries to engage the class by asking if anyone has seen Mr. Holland's Opus. More than just name-drop, later in the film, at the peak moment where The Quiet One gives the Get Off Your Ass Speech and says "carpe diem," Marschz desperately whimpers "That's from Dead Poets Society!" as though that was the culmination of all of his effort.

But, like good parody, Hamlet 2 brings so much more to the genres satirized here. The film is so self-aware that every known actor in the film plays a meta-parody of his- or herself. For example, Elisabeth Shue plays Elisabeth Shue, a "retired" actress working as a nurse in a fertility clinic; Steve Coogan reprises the aforementioned role of the hapless, talentless loser; Catherine Keener plays the devious bitch from the Being John Malkovich era; and David Arquette plays the role he was meant for: the impossibly dumb, clueless roommate. The less known actors play archetypal roles (the rabid drama types, the gangsta who's an amazing actor with disapproving parents, etc.) with such flair, you'd think it was completely original. Even the voice of Jeremy Irons (if it is actually him) is such the perfect choice for the narration of something overblown and dramatic.

Where the movie does not always succeed, however, is in overall execution. Occasionally, the jokes are a little too easy and too crass for how utterly brilliant the rest of it is. Amy Poehler (unfortunately, the weakest part of this ensemble) enters as the ACLU agent hired to protect Marschz's freedom to put on his play, and drops the most baffling line: "I have nothing to lose, I'm married to a Jew." Normally an epithet of this type doesn't bother me, even if I belong to the scorned demographic. There is clearly a reference here that I am missing, because it seems like the line is just thrown in to complete the offensive spectrum, even though it is not clever at all. While there are some parts that are so split-second hilarious, like Marschz's theatrical jump-kick to reveal a flash of unclothed genitals (to the horror of the high school class before him), there are also many parts that are so bluntly slapstick (like repeated head injuries to the same Quiet Student) that I wonder if the two writers simply didn't collaborate much. I wonder if the good stuff came from Pam Brady, writer for South Park, or from director Andrew Fleming, whose last notable work was Nancy Drew.

I am willing to forgive those lapses in cleverness and funniness for the overall success of the film. I knew so little about it going in that I could only be impressed, and I was. It is one of the better comedies of the year, and the only one that comes to mind that actually made me laugh out loud recently. If the ultimate goal of a comedy is to make someone as picky and uptight as me actually laugh by my own accord rather than riding the wave of paroxysmal audiences, then Hamlet 2 passes with flying colors. Dare I even say, I would see it again.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona

Dir. Woody Allen, 2008



The Woody Allen machine is, alas, a trainwreck. The tragedy of it all is that he is a director that, deep down, I respect and admire for the majority of his body of work. His films have made me laugh, cry and think, in addition to rendering me embarrassed, annoyed and disappointed. But with this new film, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, a new emotion seeps from my loins: disgust. I had hoped it would be at least as good as Deconstructing Harry, or, more optimistically, Match Point, but I had long given up the expectation of seeing another Manhattan, or even Mighty Aphrodite. This film is by far my least favorite of his, and I've seen The Curse of the Jade Scorpion, Small Time Crooks and Hollywood Ending.

Woody (I feel we're old friends by now, so I can be familiar) chooses the overused plot device of two college-aged girls on vacation in a foreign country, where they will do new and different things that will change their lives. Usually you can find that setup in a horror film where the life-changing event is death or mutilation. Maybe that would have made Vicky Cristina Barcelona more interesting, rather than having the two girls pretentiously explore sex, Spaniards, and art. Vicky (Rebecca Hall) is the more straitlaced of the two, engaged to be married and stridently pursuing a master's degree in Catalan identity. Cristina (Scarlett Johansson) is a "free spirit" (kill me for using that term), unsure of what she wants, but only certain of what she doesn't want. Wah, wah, wah. The two girls meet Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem), a not-subtly-so fiery Spanish painter who invites them for a debauched weekend out of town so he can make love to both of them. For reasons that only a work of fiction can devise, they agree.

Cristina, content to leap into bed with Juan Antonio immediately, is sold on the dramatic lifestyle of an artist. Vicky attempts to keep her head but is seduced by the torrid painter over a private guitar concert. While Juan Antonio shacks up with Cristina, Vicky marries her fiancé but pines theatrically while gazing over picturesque Barcelona landscapes. Then, in the midst of Juan Antonio and Cristina's cohabitational bliss, in sweeps Maria Elena (Penelope Cruz), J.A.'s suicidal ex-wife, who at first schizophrenically mistrusts and threatens Cristina, but then joins their conjugal life in a supposed perfect tripod of mutual love.

The story is so insipid that it's embarrassing so spend so much time on it, but clearly Woody is so proud of his decisions that just in case we didn't catch it, he assigns a dull and obvious voice-over narration to fill in all the spaces between dialogue. At some points, the level of detail in the voice-over is even insulting; for example, when Juan Antonio gets a phone call in the middle of the night and rushes out to the hospital, the narrator says, "Juan Antonio ran out in the middle of the night and raced over to the hospital." I can't, for the life of me, understand why Woody thought his film needed so much narration. Perhaps what he really wants to do is write a book, but feels his time is finite, so why not stick as many words in one two-hour space as possible?

While watching the film, I tried hard to enjoy it, either by taking in the sweeping shots of Gaudi's architecture or the sensuous way that the light ripples off of Javier Bardem's unusual features. But the first moments of real entertainment came with the introduction of Maria Elena. While her character was not particular original, Penelope Cruz fully commits herself to the role, and manages to breathe some much-needed life into the film. In non-Spanish films, she is usually pretty bland, but I was very impressed that she could carry it off in a way that made it seem like her character was not actually as cookie-cutter as it was probably written.

I cannot say the same for any of the other performances, however. It is a shame, because I already know that Javier Bardem is an excellent actor, and I've liked the little I have seen of Rebecca Hall. (I now also know that Lost in Translation aside, Scarlett Johansson is simply not a very good actress, so I didn't expect much and didn't get it.) While the actors get the facial expressions right, every word that comes out of their mouths loses all credibility because they deliver their lines like Woody Allen himself. In his early films, Woody's neurotic stammer immortalized his Lower East Side persona, but with his words in other people's mouths, it seems much too much like he is vainly attempting to turn his cast into his protégés. I can just see him yelling, "cut!" mid-scene and pulling Rebecca Hall aside, saying, "Look, you're doing great, but you're saying your lines too clearly. Throw some stutter in there so that we know you're thinking about things while you're talking. Make us believe that you're a little neurotic. Make us believe that you're unsure of yourself."

I can't imagine going back to a time before I'd seen any of Woody's other films, so I can't imagine how this film must come across to those unfamiliar with his work. Do I only dislike this film because I know it's so much worse than his others? The things I do not like about it probably only bother me so much because I know that Woody is better than this. Perhaps some viewers would be excited by the prospect of an onscreen threesome, and are appeased by a "hot" darkroom scene, but I don't go to the cinema to see dispassionate same-sex kisses. I didn't expect much from this cast and crew, but I was unprepared to see the lowest common denominator from all involved, Penelope Cruz excepted. What should have at least been a decent diversion turned out to be more like a pretentious college drama production.

Pink Flamingos

Dir. John Waters, 1972



In 1964 Justice Potter Stewart officially stated that obscenity is impossible to define, but added, "I know it when I see it." He was referring to what is protected under the first amendment, and his statement officiously took the power out of the hands of moviemakers and artists; judgment of their art would be at the discretion of the authorities. The very same year, Susan Sontag wrote "Notes on Camp," wherein she defines camp through a list of examples, exceptions and anecdotes. Camp, like obscenity, belongs to the realm of the intangible and unspecific.

Along comes the 1970's, and with it came a new face in cinema. If there was ever a person who wanted to put a fine point on both camp and obscenity, it is John Waters. With his films that seem to portray the absolute worst of society, he lays the foundation for the Church of Camp, and the Camp Bible is none other than Pink Flamingos. In this film, he pushes the boundaries of what is acceptable, what is tolerable, and what you can portray in film. Pink Flamingos is not his first film, but it is the first that is readily available with Netflix. It is also arguably his most well-known and notorious film, which people discuss in shocked whispers. "This is the one where Divine eats shit!" "This is the one where she puts a steak under her skirt!" "This is the one with the Egg Man!"

There is actually a plot here, but it's so improbable that it only serves to provide an excuse for showing some of the most outrageous acts committed to film. Divine, John Waters' muse and the queen of camp herself, is hailed in the local paper as the "filthiest person alive," much to the chagrin of the local filth, Connie and Raymond Marble (played by Waters regulars Mink Stole and David Lochary). They take it upon themselves to usurp the title from Divine at any cost, which starts a war of filth and licentiousness, and which Divine predictably wins. There are other characters, Divine's entourage and the servants that the Marbles employ to do their dirty work, but it is Edith Massey's role as Edie, Divine's mother and egg enthusiast, who gives the most memorable performance. Who, having seen this film, can forget the be-girdled woman in the playpen, bleating for "Mr. Egg Man?" Kudos to John Waters for realizing that eggs are the most disgusting food ever to be binge-eaten.

While 1970's film had taken great strides in breaking cultural norms and depicting things that had previously been considered taboo, Pink Flamingos took it to a whole new level. Other films were fiercely anti-war, toying with political disaffection and breaking down sexual mores, but this one depicted absolutely everything that people had not yet wanted to face. Public murder, cannibalism, incest, rape, mutilation, animal cruelty, voyeurism, exhibitionism, fetishism, and that's just off the top of my head. It was extremely controversial, protested by almost every single political advocacy group, and was banned in several countries. On top of it, Waters added a very ironic, bubble-gum pop soundtrack, with such hits as "The Girl Can't Help It," "(How Much is) That Doggie in the Window," and "I'm Not A Juvenile Delinquent," which play over various acts of lewdness and vulgarity.

John Waters knew exactly what he was doing in making this film. He employs all sorts of cinematic devices to get his point across, from the aforementioned irony, to his encyclopedic knowledge of film clichés to abuse and exploit. At one point, he even breaks down the 4th wall, referring to Divine as not only playing the character of the Filthiest Person Alive, but actually being the Filthiest Actress Alive, when she famously eats the dog feces. He made quite possibly the filthiest film ever made, and he could very well be the filthiest director alive. But you have to know the rules to break them, and he takes obscenity and camp to the far reaches of the imagination, doing better to define them than any theoretician ever could. The country may not like it, but John Waters made his impression on American society in a way that could never be reversed.

Pineapple Express

Dir. David Gordon Green, 2008



I have the current misfortune, in reviewing this film, of being entirely the wrong audience for it. It was a very successful film, well-reviewed by many, but I did not enjoy it very much for reasons that extend a little bit beyond the actual content. Despite doing my best to keep an open mind and to be amenable to the fact that I might like it, I was relieved when I did not, because it could better galvanize my stance on the world of Judd Apatow, Seth Rogen, and, albeit in a different way, David Gordon Green. I have yet to enjoy a film experience with any of these variables in play, but I will try to explain this is the most unbiased way possible.

The film opens with Dale Denton (Seth Rogen), a pretty smart guy who holds a pretty unchallenging job as a process server, and who has the time to call into talk radio shows and smoke weed in his car. He's kind of a loser, but in that marketable way that kids these days seem to really get into. One day, upon visiting his dealer, Saul (played quite excellently by James Franco), he acquires a rare variation of the cannabis that is as identifiable as a fingerprint. This comes into play as Dale goes to serve a more notorious drug dealer, Ted, and witnesses him and a LadyCop (Rosie Perez) commit a murder. While panicking, Dale drops his identifiable joint, which Ted and LadyCop use to track him through Saul, and Saul's provider, Red. The chase ensues, and there are madcap shenanigans and explosions and fistfights, and all other kinds of insanity.

I'll start off with the positive. James Franco really is quite good, as I'm sure most reviewers are pleased to declare. He really commits to his role, and has good comic delivery. He hasn't had many comedic roles in his recent years, though it's possible that his success with Pineapple Express will lead to more. I can only hope that they don't start typecasting him as the goofy sidekick kind of supporting role, because I think he's better than that. Another positive note in this whole endeavor is that it really would have been worse if David Gordon Green had written the script. Whatever there is to say about writers Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg, their script fits the genre well, does what it needs to do, and many people will like it because that is their brand of humor. Green's writing is atrocious, and although there are some who like his style, it would definitely appeal to a much, much smaller audience.

And this is where I let loose with all the things I didn't like. True, it could have been worse, and my poor opinion of Green is informed by All the Real Girls and Undertow, and not George Washington or Snow Angels, which I hear are actually good. I didn't sense much of his strong influence in this film, aside from one scene of dancing around in the woods which is reminiscent of the awfulness of All the Real Girls. What is more noticeable is the absence of Judd Apatow as director, which is the nicest way I can put it. Apatow's influence is quite definitely present, but it is diluted by something else, an "indie" awkwardness that some may interpret as an edge of believability and genuineness. I saw Green's decision to focus more on weird little moments more of a disconnect from the flow of the narration.

Seeing this film has definitely showed me the relative strengths of the writing versus the direction. The writing and the directing styles are recognizable enough to be able to tell at what point which force took over and had more weight. This is definitely a Seth Rogen film rather than a David Gordon Green film. However, that is where I am, as a moviegoer, completely alienated. I don't like Seth Rogen. Where some see an Everyman, I see the kind of annoying guy that I used to know in high school and didn't particularly like. He is not the type of person I'd get along with, and I don't feel that he represents me or "my kind" of people. The kind of humor in this film is one that appeals to the majority in my age demographic, probably, but I don't laugh at "gay" insinuations or long, long fight sequences where someone will just not die. The people in the theater with me had a really great time, though, so good for them.

Why did I watch this then? Honestly, it's only because the IMAX screening of The Dark Knight had sold out, and we needed to kill some time before the next one. Had it not been playing at the right time, or if Brideshead Revisited had started just a half hour earlier, everything would be different, and I'd probably be sitting here, complaining about that movie instead. I didn't come out of it entirely feeling like I'd wasted my time, because it's good to be reminded of what's out there, and to reaffirm that your tastes are actually what they are. I would love to believe that if it were a really great film that I'd admit to liking it, but I'm not sure that I could. If that invalidates this review, I suppose I can accept that.