Only one line in Knocked Up, last season’s “laugh-out-loud comedy classic”, actually made me laugh out loud.
Actually, it was more of a hesitant approach towards a laugh, which then turned into a rather nasty cough. Still, it’s the closest I came to the product’s description, so I may as well make mention of it. Some way into the film, Paul Rudd, who plays one of the entirely unlikeable characters with which this movie is absolutely packed (and it doesn’t really matter exactly which one he is), says that “marriage is like an unfunny, tense version of Everybody Loves Raymond, but it doesn’t last twenty-two minutes…it lasts forever.” (note: the ellipsis is essentially Rudd’s rather than mine, as I use it in an attempt to textually approximate his very predictable comic timing.)
I found this description funny because I think it’s actually a fantastically accurate description not of marriage, but of Everybody Loves Raymond – which is frequently unfunny, almost always features people being tense and angry with one another, and feels much closer to “forever” in running length than any sitcom has any right to be. In fact, the only thing which is not accurate about this description of the show is its apparent presupposition of some kind of mythical Everybody Loves Raymond show that is funny, is delightfully breezy and good-natured, and feels like it only lasts an acceptable twenty-two minutes long. As far as I know, that show does not exist.
To be clear, Knocked Up was just awful. So awful, that I fell back on insulting Everybody Loves Raymond instead, rather than forcing myself to talk about just how queasily bad Knocked Up was. Just how bad was it? It was very bad indeed. Why was it so bad? I can’t imagine. It certainly has all the ingredients that one would look for in a comedy: frankly unappealing main character who for unfathomable reasons doesn’t use a condom, check; hilarious bunch of wacky screw-up side-kicks who can’t be bothered to have jobs, check; shot of a prosthetic vagina mid-birth, check; people screaming torturously at each other throughout, check; gratuitous trip to the Vegas for non sequitur strippers, double-check. Please don’t think, by the way, that my sarcasm here betrays a snootiness about my taste in comedy films. I’d prefer watching Van Wilder: Party Liaison to Woody Allen any day (who wouldn’t?), but really, Knocked Up is just bad. Knocked Up is so bad, in fact, that it draws other objects (such as poor Ray Romano) into its own badness like some kind of gigantic film singularity.
And why does Paul Rudd keep ending up in such ghastly movies? I rather like him, but he sure knows how to pick a turkey. In fact, I’ve been thinking about this, and I have an idea that somewhere there’s a big book, containing lists of upcoming movie titles, that actors like Rudd can read. I imagine this book looks kind of like an old Yellow Pages (do you remember them, internet?), the sort of weighty tome that you flip open with a crash before running your index finger down the page, despite the fact that you don’t do this with any other book. And next to each as-yet-unmade movie title there is an indication of just how good or bad that film will be: I imagine that for Knocked Up it was not so much an indication as a giant flashing neon sign reading “Crikey! Stay away from this stinker, Rudd!”
But for whatever self-punishing reason, perhaps some unknown horrible event in his childhood, Paul Rudd not only ignores this kind of warning, he deliberately and continually seeks them out. And then calls up the producer to ask for a part. But not the main part, because that would be silly. No, he’ll plump for “Guy who makes faces No. 2”, or something similar. Seriously, Paul, stop it already. You’re delightful, you’ve still got your looks, and you can be pretty funny given the chance. Don’t let the last season of Friends be remembered as your best comedy turn. Don’t let Clueless be your shining hour. Because that just makes me sad.
Notes:
1. I am aware that with Random DVD Review #1 I have broken my own rules about not writing about anything specific or relevant (I would argue Knocked Up is neither, but accept it might be the thinnest of thin ends of the wedge). Let’s be honest, though: I break these rules with every successive post. You know I do it, I know I do it, so let’s not trouble ourselves by worrying over it too much.
2. I really like the unmade-movie-Yellow-Pages theory; I think it has legs. And there’s actually plenty of evidence out there for this theory’s “truthiness” (can I stop using the air-quotes yet, Mr. Colbert?). For example: Will Smith, despite being at best a distinctly average actor, not only doesn’t seem to have made a really bad film, but has also somehow managed to come out looking good from even the rather dodgy ones like Wild Wild West. Matthew Broderick, on the other hand, despite being quite good at what he does, constantly appears in the most appalling rubbish ever to grace the silver screen. Twenty years ago, I bet people were saying “Wow, the kid who plays that Ferris Bueller could be, in an ironic juxtaposition to his physical stature, our Next Big Thing.” Unfortunately, the bright young Broderick then chose to spend the next twenty years appearing in stupefying tomatoes like Godzilla. Or Inspector Gadget. Or The Stepford Wives. Or Deck The Halls. Or Addicted To Love. The only possible explanation for such astounding tom-foolery is that he and Paul Rudd spend lazy afternoons together picking out ever-more ridiculous garbage to star in, from the mighty tome of movies-yet-to-be-made, while Will Smith quietly leaves them to it.
3. As an addendum, imdb’s mini-biography of Broderick begins: “A slight comic actor…”. I presume they meant “slight” as in “diminutive”, but the phrase also works pretty well as a somewhat insulting assessment of talent. Ha ha, nice one, imdb.
Actually, it was more of a hesitant approach towards a laugh, which then turned into a rather nasty cough. Still, it’s the closest I came to the product’s description, so I may as well make mention of it. Some way into the film, Paul Rudd, who plays one of the entirely unlikeable characters with which this movie is absolutely packed (and it doesn’t really matter exactly which one he is), says that “marriage is like an unfunny, tense version of Everybody Loves Raymond, but it doesn’t last twenty-two minutes…it lasts forever.” (note: the ellipsis is essentially Rudd’s rather than mine, as I use it in an attempt to textually approximate his very predictable comic timing.)
I found this description funny because I think it’s actually a fantastically accurate description not of marriage, but of Everybody Loves Raymond – which is frequently unfunny, almost always features people being tense and angry with one another, and feels much closer to “forever” in running length than any sitcom has any right to be. In fact, the only thing which is not accurate about this description of the show is its apparent presupposition of some kind of mythical Everybody Loves Raymond show that is funny, is delightfully breezy and good-natured, and feels like it only lasts an acceptable twenty-two minutes long. As far as I know, that show does not exist.
To be clear, Knocked Up was just awful. So awful, that I fell back on insulting Everybody Loves Raymond instead, rather than forcing myself to talk about just how queasily bad Knocked Up was. Just how bad was it? It was very bad indeed. Why was it so bad? I can’t imagine. It certainly has all the ingredients that one would look for in a comedy: frankly unappealing main character who for unfathomable reasons doesn’t use a condom, check; hilarious bunch of wacky screw-up side-kicks who can’t be bothered to have jobs, check; shot of a prosthetic vagina mid-birth, check; people screaming torturously at each other throughout, check; gratuitous trip to the Vegas for non sequitur strippers, double-check. Please don’t think, by the way, that my sarcasm here betrays a snootiness about my taste in comedy films. I’d prefer watching Van Wilder: Party Liaison to Woody Allen any day (who wouldn’t?), but really, Knocked Up is just bad. Knocked Up is so bad, in fact, that it draws other objects (such as poor Ray Romano) into its own badness like some kind of gigantic film singularity.
And why does Paul Rudd keep ending up in such ghastly movies? I rather like him, but he sure knows how to pick a turkey. In fact, I’ve been thinking about this, and I have an idea that somewhere there’s a big book, containing lists of upcoming movie titles, that actors like Rudd can read. I imagine this book looks kind of like an old Yellow Pages (do you remember them, internet?), the sort of weighty tome that you flip open with a crash before running your index finger down the page, despite the fact that you don’t do this with any other book. And next to each as-yet-unmade movie title there is an indication of just how good or bad that film will be: I imagine that for Knocked Up it was not so much an indication as a giant flashing neon sign reading “Crikey! Stay away from this stinker, Rudd!”
But for whatever self-punishing reason, perhaps some unknown horrible event in his childhood, Paul Rudd not only ignores this kind of warning, he deliberately and continually seeks them out. And then calls up the producer to ask for a part. But not the main part, because that would be silly. No, he’ll plump for “Guy who makes faces No. 2”, or something similar. Seriously, Paul, stop it already. You’re delightful, you’ve still got your looks, and you can be pretty funny given the chance. Don’t let the last season of Friends be remembered as your best comedy turn. Don’t let Clueless be your shining hour. Because that just makes me sad.
Notes:
1. I am aware that with Random DVD Review #1 I have broken my own rules about not writing about anything specific or relevant (I would argue Knocked Up is neither, but accept it might be the thinnest of thin ends of the wedge). Let’s be honest, though: I break these rules with every successive post. You know I do it, I know I do it, so let’s not trouble ourselves by worrying over it too much.
2. I really like the unmade-movie-Yellow-Pages theory; I think it has legs. And there’s actually plenty of evidence out there for this theory’s “truthiness” (can I stop using the air-quotes yet, Mr. Colbert?). For example: Will Smith, despite being at best a distinctly average actor, not only doesn’t seem to have made a really bad film, but has also somehow managed to come out looking good from even the rather dodgy ones like Wild Wild West. Matthew Broderick, on the other hand, despite being quite good at what he does, constantly appears in the most appalling rubbish ever to grace the silver screen. Twenty years ago, I bet people were saying “Wow, the kid who plays that Ferris Bueller could be, in an ironic juxtaposition to his physical stature, our Next Big Thing.” Unfortunately, the bright young Broderick then chose to spend the next twenty years appearing in stupefying tomatoes like Godzilla. Or Inspector Gadget. Or The Stepford Wives. Or Deck The Halls. Or Addicted To Love. The only possible explanation for such astounding tom-foolery is that he and Paul Rudd spend lazy afternoons together picking out ever-more ridiculous garbage to star in, from the mighty tome of movies-yet-to-be-made, while Will Smith quietly leaves them to it.
3. As an addendum, imdb’s mini-biography of Broderick begins: “A slight comic actor…”. I presume they meant “slight” as in “diminutive”, but the phrase also works pretty well as a somewhat insulting assessment of talent. Ha ha, nice one, imdb.