The Muppets (James Bobin, 2011)

Not three minutes go by in The Muppets before the filmmakers flaunt their unabashed reverence for Jim Henson's beloved creations. A montage of memorabilia would, in other movie, be as cynical and greedy as a filmmaker could get. Here, however, it establishes character, that of Walter (a new Muppet) and his supportive brother Gary (Jason Segel, who co-wrote the screenplay), as well as setting up the deep vein of affection the movie carries for the franchise. Segel made his Muppet love plain in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, and ardor bursts from every frame of this uneven but lovable revival.

In fact, The Muppets will likely play better to the parents who remember the felt-and-cloth puppets from their own childhood than the kids they take along (though the ones in my audience seemed entertained enough). Packed with self-referential jokes and the usual Muppety meta-humor, the film emerges as a true passion project for Segel, co-writer Nicholas Stoller (director of Marshall) and director James Bobin. And though their nostalgia occasionally threatens to make wall off the movie from the youngest viewers, The Muppets proves funny, and touching, enough to win the fuzzy puppets a new generation of fans.

Despicable Me

It may not reach the ambitious heights of How to Train Your Dragon or Toy Story 3, but you have to admit: Despicable Me rates a mention if for no other reason than its ad campaign. I distrust all film trailers, but I cannot recall an animated film built up so effectively by the "Gabbo! Gabbo! Gabbo!" approach to teasers. It's a bold gambit to use with a movie targeted to children, not renowned for their attention spans and typically sold to kids with the most condescending disregard imaginable. (It prepares them for all trailers. See: Grown-Ups.) The manner with which the marketing department kept the plot of this film under wraps while generating interest rivals the surreal teasers for Christopher Nolan's upcoming thriller Inception.

Yet Despicable Me has an entertaining, if unoriginal, blend of slapstick and pathos, enough to provide the briefest respite in what may be the worst summer of my 20 -- no, 21 now -- years on this planet. Its protagonist, Gru (Steve Carell), is a villain whose intelligence and ambition do not quite place him in the upper echelon of supervillains as his reach too often exceeds his grasp. After a brief but amusing opening sequence establishes that someone (not Gru) managed to steal the Great Pyramids of Giza, the diminutive evildoer hunts for the new mastermind responsible for the crime of the century while planning an even bigger heist to cement his own name. His idea? Steal the Moon.

Unfortunately, this plot hits the wall fairly quickly: Gru's conflict with the young upstart who rises to sudden prominence, Vector (Jason Segel), begins without steady lead-in and falls away quickly. Sparring over a shrink ray that will allow the wielder to shrink the Moon, Gru and Vector get off a few uproarious scenes of over-the-top fighting, with Gru's fondness for missiles of all sizes and payloads and Vector's penchant for bizarre, marine animal-based weaponry. Yet the storyline shifts suddenly when three orphaned girls -- Margo, Edith and Agnes -- walk around the neighborhood selling cookies. Gru turns them away, but when he sees them get through the defenses in Vector's fortress that kept the rival away, the villain decides that the girls could offer him a way inside Vector's home and a shot at stealing the shrink ray.

I'll leave to figure where the movie heads from here. The presence of the girls, one cautious and hardened from years of loneliness, one venting her own issues through destructive tendencies and the other an adorable miscreant not yet able to comprehend the rotten quality of her life in any meaningful sense, must inevitably lead the scabrous, egomaniacal Gru to become a better man. This would be fine and dandy if it mixed in with the original plot, but Despicable Me slams on the brakes at this point, almost completely tossing out the enticing idea of a fight between two villains for supremacy in a world that seemingly lacks superheroes as a counterbalance.

Thus, the film moves in such a disjointed fashion that its 95 minutes feel twice as long. The total downshift from an epic war between inventive villains with no regard for collateral damage to a pat, sentimental tale of a man learning to love grates like two metal sheets shrieking against each other. Gru uses them to his intended goal in short order, leaving the majority of the film to a plot that's rushed even as it plods along the typical path to feel-good mush.

"When we got adopted by a bald guy," Edith says upon arriving at Gru's twisted mansion and realizing that their adoption might not solve all their problems, "I thought this would be more like Annie." She must not have paid attention, because Despicable Me plays exactly like Annie with a more action-packed twist. Daddy Warbucks didn't take kindly to the orphan in his home either, only for Annie's plucky charm to eventually melt his heart.

Of the three children, Agnes is easily the most visible. An overload of cuteness, Agnes is shamelessly manipulative in design to grab the audience's heartstrings without any effort. To be sure, her mere presence bypasses an intuitive and subtle emotional arc in favor of puppy eyes and the dramatic irony that can only come from a toddler who doesn't understand how depressing her optimism really is. Yet she's such a fun character that the effrontery of her usage does not derail the picture and is instead one of its greatest aspects. Her obsession with unicorns and all things fluffy make her the cutest girl to appear in animation since Boo in Monsters Inc.

Her cuteness is counterbalanced by the hilarity of Gru's minions. A sea of tiny, yellow, gibbering creatures, the minions waver between massive incompetence and an almost Oompa-Loompa-type efficiency, devolving into infighting and office pranksterism yet proving their mettle when it counts. Directors Pierre Coffin and Chris Renaud mine these mad blobs for all they're worth, subjecting them to the experiments of Gru's aged, hearing-impaired assistant, Dr. Nefario (Russell Brand(?)), having them punch each other over mischievous activity and even messing with their bodies when one cracks another's back and shakes him until the assaulted minion emits a neon yellow like a glow stick. Not a single scene involving the minions fails to get a laugh and, combined with Agnes' endearing adorableness, they float what would otherwise be a lackadaisical comedy.

The great shame of the film is that the potential to be a great animated picture lies in plain sight. Some more adult humor finds its way into the picture, such as a gag involving a secret bank that lends millions to supervillains around the world noting on a plaque that it used to be Lehman Brothers. The simple notion of two villains duking it out for prominence without a hero to intervene could have made for a delicious game of animated oneupsmanship, which exists at the beginning and end and could have stretched the imaginations of the animators with increasingly outlandish fights in what would basically have been a matter of two Bond villains emptying all their ridiculous devices at each other. Instead, it takes the easy way out, using a rotten, context-less score by Hans Zimmer and Heitor Pereira and a few close-ups to wrench emotionality that the film does not earn.

Still, it's funny enough to warrant a viewing, and even the smallest snatches of enjoyment are welcome in a year as wretched as this. I laughed a great deal and bordered on whispering an "awwww" or two despite my own best interests, and if the film was just a bit tighter I might have recommended it unconditionally over my wishes to see the villain war continue uninterrupted. But there is one lovely piece of thoughtfulness in the nexus point where the two plots meet: Gru's mother. Through her, we see a neglected boy, whose dreams of becoming an astronaut were dashed by a snarky parent, now on the cusp of ensuring that no one else could ever know his dream of walking on the Moon. At the same time, his adopted children provide him with the opportunity to break the cycle of neglect and loneliness that made him so miserable. That line is not fully explored, but it's just one more hint that makes an average movie entertaining, and could have made it so much more.

Freaks and Geeks

Ever since I sat down with Firefly in late 2006, I've found myself slowly working through the list of "brilliant but canceled" television series that continue to prove that networks promote crap over genius and that it's fundamentally our fault. Maybe if people didn't treat American Idol like a presidential election and give Jay Leno 17 years of fantastic ratings, we could have nice things. Many of them, despite their short lifespans, belong on any serious list of the greatest shows of the last 20 years, if not all time. Arrested Development. Pushing Daisies. Sports Night. But I took my sweet time getting around to perhaps the mother of all brilliant-but-canceled fare, Judd Apatow and Paul Feig's adored Freaks and Geeks. I've been hearing about this series ever since The 40-Year-Old Virgin became a hit, but for whatever reason I never shelled out the dough for it. Perhaps because I was still in high school at the time, I didn't want to see yet another attempt by a bunch of old guys to narrow teens down to clichéd stereotypes -- it didn't help that the show was called Freaks and Geeks. The only meaningful high school movie that addressed all the cliques without making the types the focus was Dazed and Confused.

Freaks and Geeks, to my utter amazement, makes Dazed and Confused look as stubbornly locked into teenage archetypes as The Breakfast Club. Yes, the geeks are geeky and the freaks are freaky, but the way each character differs and matures in the space of its 18-episode run should have guaranteed it multiple seasons, a massive fanbase that included both teenagers and wistful adults, and stardom for its immaculately-chosen cast. By narrowing the scope to only two of the various high school cliques (though by no means excluding the rest), Apatow and Feig give themselves the room to actually delve into these tropes, subverting some stereotypes while playing into others -- but not without exploring why they might actually be true.


Set in the 1980-81 school season, Freaks and Geeks primarily centers on Lindsay (Linda Cardellini) and Sam Weir (John Francis Daley), two well-off preppies who get straight A's and spend their time in A.V. club (Sam) and the Mathletes (Lindsay). But their grandmother's death shakes Lindsay, who suddenly begins to question religion, what's important and her purpose in life. So she dons an old Army jacket and sets about rebelling in just about the gentlest manner possible. Meanwhile, Sam and his friends try to survive and maybe even get lucky despite the dual hurdles of their geek and freshman statuses. It's the simplest setup you could ask for, but in no time these characters grow in fascinating ways, some of which might seem initially contrived but are treated with enough gravitas to never come off as forced.

Lindsay soon stumbles across the titular freaks, and what a grand bunch they are: ever-stoned, romantic Neil Peart-wannabe Nick (Jason Segel); James Dean-esque rebel Daniel (James Franco); viciously sardonic Ken (Seth Rogen); and perpetually enraged Kim (Busy Phillips). They hang out under the bleachers, in empty corners and simply off-campus. They initially regard Lindsay with all the clichéd derision you'd expect, but within no time some of the group accept her -- especially Nick, who is clearly taken by her from the start. The first few episodes show Lindsay slowly ingratiating herself into this gang, winning the friendship of all of them while not simply abandoning the core of her character established in the pilot.

Sam doesn't interact with as many people. Like a proper geek, he doesn't need more than a few buddies; "I've already got 2," he chimes when he's encouraged to meet more people, "how many more does a guy need?" He hangs with Neal (Samm Levine), who fancies himself a comedian, and Bill (Martin Starr), who's allergic to everything but his own body odor. Every now and then, they mingle with portly Gordon Crisp and Harris, who may just be the missing link between overachieving nerd and burned-out freak.

Most of the episodes start with a typical high school situation -- drug use, hosting a party when the parents are away, a car accident -- but all of them play with the conventions through my most favorite of storytelling techniques: "little moments." Freaks and Geeks is, quite simply, the single greatest "little moments" series ever made by someone not named Joss Whedon, and even then it's not an easy choice to make. When Mr. and Mrs. Weir leave for the weekend and soon the entire school is invited to a party, the geeks decide to have a little fun by switching the keg out with non-alcoholic beer, only for everyone to fool themselves into acting drunk via the placebo effect. But the current running under the episode is Nick's despair over John Bonham's death, a depression that delivers nothing but comedy gold when he begins to explain away some questionable decisions as a product of the booze (which isn't really booze, remember) and grief. It's the sort of thing that might warrant maybe one reference just to tie the episode to the time period, but they play it up like a major character died.

At that's just one little moment of the second episode. Everything is gold: Lindsay going to hell and back and blowing money meant for her college fund to secure a fake I.D., only for the club bouncer not to card her. Neal's incessant mentioning of his bar mitzvah that spans the series. Anything and everything that Martin Starr does. Mr. Weir's Korea story that starts seriously and ends in straight-faced absurdity. How Jason Segel never falls into pothead clichés despite having to act high in the majority of the episodes. It's all so natural that you can't tell where the improv ends and the scripting begins -- unlike the explosion of films to come from these collaborators down the road.

But the kids are just the tip of the iceberg. Dave Allen steals nearly all of his scenes as recovering hippie guidance counselor, Jeff Rosso, who means well but can't ever find the right balance between authority figure and someone the kids can trust as a friend. His attempts to condense hippie ideology into keywords and phrases that belong on crap pamphlets highlights the hilarious tragedy of the love generation and how he's really not far removed from all of his friends whom he claims grew up to sell out and run companies. Tom Wilson (you know him as Biff Tannen from the Back to the Future series) plays the gruff, slightly unhinged gym teacher we've seen a thousand times, but he adds a third dimension when he helps Sam deal with all of his confusion and terror concerning sex education and women. Later, he even starts dating Bill's mom, leading to an uproarious trip to a go-kart park to try to curry the geeks' favor.


Lindsay's parents are the best of all: Becky Ann Baker is warm but stern as Jean, and Joe Flaherty, oh man, Joe Flaherty. His Harold is the most overtly sitcom-y aspect of the series: whenever his children express a desire to go to a concert or blow off school, he never fails to have a story on hand about a childhood friend or a celebrity who did the same thing (to a much greater scale of course) and wound up broke, infirm or dead. But he can also pull of the sentimental moments without slipping into that mawkishness that all too often accompanies the abrupt switch from absurdity to profundity. When Nick hides out at the Weir home after his father sells his massive drum kit, Harold teaches the kid a thing or two about real drumming -- and isn't a shame that so few young 'uns don't know about Buddy Rich? -- and gives the boy what may be the first positive encouragement he's ever received, and it feels completely true to the character despite no prior evidence that he could act in such a manner.

Most of the time, we the audience are lucky if each of us can identify with one of the characters, but I saw a part of myself in all of these kids. I knew Sam's inability to hold a conversation with a girl without setting himself as "just a friend,"though at least I never had to field that crushing "you're like my sister" response that poor Sam endured. I had Lindsay's early life crisis, albeit I made it all the way to college before I realized I had no idea what I wanted from life. I spent my freshman year conversing via comedy film quotes like Neal, Lord knows I suffered from Nick's naive, borderline disturbing romanticism, though thankfully I never quite resorted to stalking people.


That relatability with the characters makes it difficult to pick a favorite. Nevertheless, I think I'd have to side with Nick: he has a touch of the romantic in him, but he doesn't know how to show it properly. Clearly he's seen too many movies and read too much poetry, and he tries to apply those exaggerated depictions of love to his high school relationships. He so deludes himself by interpreting Lindsay's friendly gestures as advances that he more or less enters into a relationship with her by acting like they've been dating for months. When Lindsay breaks it off, he spends much of the season trying to win her back, lapsing into unintentional creepiness. It's not that he's some future rapist; he really does think he's being sweet, but he just doesn't realize how unsettling his behavior is. Throw in his troubled home life, his love of drumming and his utter lack of ability for said passion -- he spends more time ensuring that he has dry ice and strobe lights ready than honing his craft -- and you've got the most realistically and endearingly creepy teenager ever depicted on-screen. I found myself uncomfortably identifying with him as the character brought up memories I'd prefer to remain repressed, but Jason Segel's natural charm makes him goofy and harmless as opposed to disturbing.

As hard as it is to pick a favorite character, choosing the best episode is even more of a challenge. There are no plots that don't work, and each episode takes the characters in new places. There's "The Garage Door," in which the geeks slowly uncover Neal's father's affair; the hilarious juxtaposition of Lindsay's first joint and Bill's allergic reaction to a peanut in "Chokin and Tokin"; Daniel becoming a punk rocker to win the heart of a spike-haired pogo-er. They're all hilarious, but the king of them, and in many ways the bedrock for Judd Apatow's eventual box-office success, has to be "The Little Things." In it, Ken, who'd found his sardonic match in Amy, discovers that his new girlfriend was born a hermaphrodite and spends the rest of the time wondering if he's gay. Even if you're suffering from Rogen overexposure, watch the scene where he plays heavy metal, David Bowie and disco to see which type of music -- and therefore, whether or not he's gay -- affects him the most. His facial expressions alone make his subsequent ubiquity well-deserved.

Ken's crisis is juxtaposed with Sam's disastrous relationship with Cindy, for whom he pined the entire series, only to score a date and realize what a terrible, shallow person she was; so many shows make these sort of relationships perfect and the fulfillment of those characters, and it's great to see someone be honest and say that often people don't turn out to be as great as you might think. You know the relationship is doomed when she not only doesn't like The Jerk but is actively derisive when Sam tries to make her happy. Ken and Sam end up having a conversation that reveals how lucky Ken is and how miserable Sam is, in a moment that doesn't insist on itself even as it proves to be one of the most insightful and sweetest scenes in the entire series.

Plenty of shows about teens growing up fancy themselves dramedies -- Gilmore Girls, even Buffy in a way -- but there tends to be a clear line between the laughs and the tears. No such line exists for Freaks and Geeks. Feig and co. have a way of writing moments that pull big laughs out of dark situations. I'm not referring to Office-esque squirm humor; it's something wholly theirs. You get a taste of it in the very first episode when Lindsay tries to stop some boys from teasing the mentally-challenged Eli (played by a young Ben Foster) only to accidentally call him 'retarded,' at which point Eli runs away in frustration only to fall and break his arm. Other so-dark-it's-funny moments include Sam's conversation with Neal's dentist father over whether or not Sam saw the man with his lover while the kid is sitting in the dentist chair, the screaming argument Kim has with her parents while Lindsay watches helplessly, and Harold trying to reaffirm his love for Jean by way of comparing her to pot roast and saying how he thinks of her when he stocks fishing poles. It's the kind of stuff that either shouldn't be funny or can only be mean-spirited, but the tone is never mocking, which makes it all the funnier.

That's not to say that the only humor is severe, however. Some of the greatest moments are just good old-fashioned light comedy. When Jean cooks Cornish hens to change things up, a confused Harold plays with the thing in a manner not unlike Chaplin's dinner roll dance in The Gold Rush. In the midst of the hilarious non-alcoholic party, Nick and Millie's duet of "Jesus is Just Alright With Me" steals the show. Any song that Jason Segel performs, really -- from clunking around on drums while imagining himself as the next Peart to his self-penned tunes like the infamous "Lady L" -- is guaranteed to be a moment of comedic genius. But my personal favorite has to be Sam taking advantage of Styx's "Come Sail Away" to get a romantic slow dance with Cindy, only for the song to speed up in the middle and leave him befuddled. Everyone who doesn't know how to dance has been in that situation: anyone can slow dance, but when you're trapped with any up-tempo number and can't get off the floor, it's terrifying.

Speaking of music: I've seen a lot of T.V. shows and even more movies, and I've never come across anything with such an amazing soundtrack. Never mind the ratings; this show would have needed American Idol numbers just to afford the song rights. The very first scene of the series tells you exactly what you're in for in a moment of audio-visual beauty: it opens with flowery music as a pretty jock professes his undying love for a prettier cheerleader, only to move under the bleachers into Hades with the freaks just as Van Halen strikes up. That moment tells you everything you need to know about the series even though its best aspect is its character growth. Van Halen plays a big part in the show's sound, as does Rush. Elsewhere, Black Flag, Ted Nugent, Billy Joel and Cream find the right note for each scene. There's even an entire episode founded upon a undercurrent of The Who. No wonder it took them four years to release a DVD; fans owe a great deal of gratitude to Shout! Factory for fronting the money for the actual music -- almost all of which is perfectly synched to the characters and their actions -- instead of insisting that they insert cheaper songs as other manufacturers asked.

As pointless as it is to compare the two, and as much as it feeds into my inability not to judge all television by the standard of Joss Whedon, I must admit that Freaks and Geeks has surpassed Firefly in my estimation as the greatest gone-too-soon program ever produced. Where Firefly worked in a area totally its own, forging unique and fully realized characters amidst fantastic plots, Freaks and Geeks does the same in a genre so played out and so hackneyed that it's a downright miracle that it could be so knowing. The numerous commentaries (at least one for each of the 18 episodes, and extra 10 on top of that) reveal how every moment dripped with the personal experiences of the writers and the improvisatory cast, and the presence of a few fan tracks only reinforce how familial the characters are not only with the cast and crew but the viewers as well. Freaks and Geeks plays like the lovechild of Cameron Crowe and Joss Whedon at his most literal, but with a charm and approach that entirely belongs to the writers and the perfect cast. You will never see a better, more timeless depiction of high school life.

I Love You, Man

Jason Segel established himself as the dark horse of the Apatow crew last year with the incredible Forgetting Sarah Marshall, far and away the best of the slew of Apatow-produced (and occasionally directed) films to come from the thinktank of former Freaks and Geeks and Undeclared staff and stars. Now he almost single-handed buoys the best of the lesser Apatow works; you know, the ones with which Apatow has barely more than a passing involvement.

The plot of I Love You, Man is both brilliance in simplicity and a big risk: at the start of the film, Peter (Paul Rudd) proposes to his love Zooey (Rashida Jones) and she says yes. But their post-engagement high does not last, as wedding preparations reveal that Peter has no steady male friends to invite to the wedding. Fearing the bridesmaids will have nothing to do but sit around awkwardly, Peter attempts to drum up some guy friends. Rudd plays Peter as a man who wants to be relaxed and cool but spends too much time trying; the actor's got a lot of charm, and it's impressive to see him twist it into awkward humor.

The result is a surprisingly sly take on the average romantic comedy. Peter uses all of the avenues we usually see characters using to find a mate: he looks around the gym and the office, to no avail. His gay brother (Andy Samberg), who chases straight men for the challenge, sets him up with a "man-date" that goes predictably yet hilariously awry. There's also the requisite gross-out gag, one that's been done to death but with a slight tweak that made the whole thing just a tad unexpected. All of this goes on for a 20-minute or so span that starts to overstay its welcome, and the film threatens to drag right out of the gate.

Then Sydney (Segel) shows up. As much the physical embodiment of what every laid-back dude wants to do but abstains from either because of fears of repercussions or a nasty case of maturity. He doesn't clean up after his dog, takes seemingly indefinite lunch breaks, and just generally speaks in the sort of aphorisms that sound really wise when you're young and cocksure but tend to lose their sheen when you actually think about them. Peter and Sydney bond over a mutual love of the Canadian prog rock band Rush, unquestionably the single best group to provide the heart of a platonic romantic comedy between two geeks.

From here the film gleefully follows every rom-com trope in the book and turns it on its side: Peter and Sydney fall into such a deep bro-love which incurs Zooey's jealousy, leading to the inevitable Big Misunderstanding that leaves all parties scattered with an uncertain-but-not-really predicament to be solved in the third act. But if it plays out in predictable tedium, that's only because it's sitting right next to you in the audience laughing at itself.

There's a fine line between comedy gold and abysmal failure when it comes to over-the-top exaggeration; for example, Step Brothers tried to filter the coming-of-age story through the lens of two middle-aged man-children, and the result was downright awful. I Love You, Man succeeds because its exaggerations are tempered by some of the sweetest and most genuine moments you'll find in a comedy these days: Peter's scenes with Zooey never once feel contrived and manage to convey Peter's dopey charm without seeming kitschy (mainly thanks to Paul Rudd's natural charisma). The three leads are helped along by a terrific supporting cast (including the aforementioned Samberg, professional straight-man J.K. Simmons as Peter's dad and Jon Favreau and Jaime Pressley as a perennially-bickering couple), who only make a great film even funnier. I Love You, Man is far from perfect, but it's one of the funnier films in recent memory, and it's worth the price of admission if for no other reason than to see Paul Rudd and Jason Segel jam to old Rush tunes.

Forgetting Sarah Marshall

A poster on one of the forums I frequent once described Forgetting Sarah Marshall as the "Apatow-produced film most like Freaks and Geeks." That only adds to the laundry list of reasons why I desperately need to sit down and watch that show. Of all the major works of Apatow Productions (and the lesser ones too), I find myself returning to Forgetting Sarah Marshall the most often, as it offers not only a slew of laughs but the most honest romance to ever grace one of the production company's films.

Jason Segel (who wrote the film) stars as Peter Bretter, a television composer who creates not music so much as -- as he terms it sardonically -- "tones." Chiefly, he works on the hit show Crime Scene: Scene of the Crime, and he's dating the star of the show, Sarah Marshall (Kristen Bell). Well, at least he was, as she visits him at the beginning of the film to break up, saying that she's met someone else. The break-up sends Peter into a tailspin of one-night stands to forget Sarah, but to no avail. Finally he strikes upon an idea: head to Hawaii for a week or so to get away from it all, only to find himself in the same hotel as Sarah and her new beau, rock star/professional Lothario Aldous Snow (Russell Brand).

From this comedy of errors comes a story about heartbreak, moving on, the awkwardness of relationships, and puppet musicals. Strap yourself in, it's a wonderful ride. As Peter copes with having to face his ex -- and with neither party willing to "run away" to another hotel -- he meets a group of tourists and locals who all get in big laughs and help propel the story. There's the zonked-out surfing instructor (Paul Rudd) who takes Peter out on the waves for the day and doesn't remember who he is by nightfall, the conservative newlyweds trying to consummate their marriage without offending the Lord, the kindly bartender who enthusiastically invites Peter to come snorkeling to watch the turtle mating season. All off-kilter little weirdos on an island just foreign enough to the average American (even though it's a damn state) to make them plausible.

While there, Peter meets Rachel (Mila Kunis), the receptionist, who pities Peter's state and even gives him a room free of charge because of it. The two socialize and even go out on pseudo-dates, and we begin to learn what both of them, and indeed all the characters, seek in this sunny paradise. Rachel, like Peter, came to Hawaii in order to forget a broken relationship, and remained there when it didn't work. Seeing how happy the move off the mainland made other staffers at the hotel only hurts more. Even Sarah, I think, visited Hawaii to squash any lingering guilt over dumping Peter, or at the very least to continue her fantasy getaway with the rock star.

What sets FSM apart from the other Apatow Productions is that it finally gives the women in a voice. Apatow placed Catherine Keener's character on a sort of detached pedestal, and made the women of Knocked Up flat and boring in order to set them apart as "mature." And we won't even get into how ridiculous it was when Jonah Hill somehow got with Emma Stone in Superbad (and that was after he passed out and accidentally smashed her in the head). But Segel lets each character have its own pathos, warmth, and killer humor. Yes, it's still two beautiful women essentially battling for that mountain of a man, but for once the women don't seem like afterthoughts tossed in amidst the improv.

But even without the pathos, this would still be the best film to come out of the ruins of Freaks and Geeks and Undeclared, as it by far the funniest. Superbad and Knocked Up, funny as they are, suffer from excruciating lulls in the middle when the characters head into situations obviously designed for a joke. Now, Chaplin did that and he's the greatest comic director of all time, but that was then and two-reelers aren't exactly the rage anymore. Forgetting Sarah Marshall, on the other hand, features dialogue that rarely plays into its location (save for discussing Hawaii), so the jokes flow smoothly and the story never sags. Not to mention that the lines are almost all screamingly funny and real, mixing awkward humor with Allen/Smith style monologues and even broad moments like the over-the-top brilliance of the Dracula musical (I wish they'd made a full version of this and put it on DVD).

When I revisit the films of Apatow and his ilk, I usually find myself spotting glaring flaws that can be overlooked on a first viewing but grate like missed notes in a recital when you're no longer in a room of people laughing over lines and generally ignoring everything else. The two exceptions I've found to this are Pineapple Express, which works because it doesn't try to be deep, and this film, which tries to be deep and succeeds. It has the power that a great romantic film must have, the ability to carry you along to unknown places you can't wait to visit, just as you do when you first meet someone special. Forgetting Sarah Marshall is simply one of the best comedies in a decade, and one of the most knowing.

Knocked Up — Unrated Version

The more I watch Forgetting Sarah Marshall the more I see the flaws in the relationships found in other major Apatow Productions. On the one hand, there's The 40-Year Old Virgin, certainly a wildly funny film, but Catherine Keener's character more or less rests on a pedestal and almost seems like a deus ex machina than an actual human being. But at least that film centered on Steve Carell's character Andy; Knocked Up, on the other hand, absolutely depends on both its male and female leads, and it suffers greatly for it.

Ben (Seth Rogen), a chubby stoner, spends his days getting baked with his friends (a number of former castmates from Freaks & Geeks and Undeclared essentially playing themselves, same names and all) and designing a web site that lists the titles of movies in which actresses appear nude and when the scenes occur. Allison (Katherine Heigl) works for the E! channel and lives with her sister Debbie (Leslie Mann) and brother-in-law Pete (Paul Rudd). One night, Allison and Debbie go to a club to celebrate Allison's promotion; meanwhile, Ben and the gang show up at the same club. Somehow, Ben wins Allison over and, despite her sister's warnings and signals, she stays to party with the schlub. Then she invites Ben back to her place for some hot love-maki- cuddling and snuggling, kids! The next morning brings cold sobriety, and the two part, putting the one-night stand behind them.

8 weeks pass. Suddenly Allison comes over with morning sickness all the time and realizes with horror what it might mean when a co-worker (Bill Hader in a scene-stealing bit part) suggests she could be pregnant. Sure enough, there's a bun in the oven, and it belongs to Ben. When she seeks him out and breaks the news, he gives just about the most unexpected reaction I could have heard in reaction to a pregnancy, and I used to watch Maury. It's funny and vicious and it sets up a tension between the two that drops far too quickly in favor of sentimentality. When it rears its ugly head again, the blame gets uncomfortably placed on a hormonal Allison.

But it's the sentimentality that wears me down more and more with each viewing. Ben has a meeting with his father (Harold Ramis), who's overjoyed with the news and kindly supports his son. His father's geniality turns him around, but we get no such moment for Allison. The common sense answer to her problem would be abortion, leading to the equally sensible response "Well, then, there wouldn't be a movie would there?" but that doesn't excuse the fact that we get no real reason for Allison to keep the baby. But whatever, she does, and Ben announces he'll support her decision. Soon they're a genuine couple, picking out baby clothes and gradually changing each other.

All this might have worked if the characters were well-written enough, but Apatow shoots for improvisation, not character depth, and it shows. After the film became a hit, Katherine Heigl went on record saying that the film was sexist because it portrayed the women as "shrews" and boring and, while it's certainly biting the hand that feeds and her argument would have a lot more clout if her follow-up was 27 Dresses, she has a point. Personally, I think the film turned out that way because it more or less gave all the screen time to Rogen and his buddies to show off their improv skills, while the women had to basically stay within the script because they needed to be the mature people in the situation. Why mature people can't get more chances to get laughs is a bit beyond me, but whatever; some people just can't write for women.

This clear disconnect between funny improvisational moments and Let's Get Down To Business really hurts the film, and a great deal of the jokes fall flat, particularly in the beginning. The entire first sequence, for example, could easily been cut if it didn't half-heartedly introduce Ben and his friends amidst the slew of lame jokes. Things pick up in the club and they generally remain very funny throughout, but the moments of exposition grind things to a halt, especially in the sagging middle. At some point I found myself focusing more on the subplot of Pete and Debbie's rough marriage, because it went for the dark laughs and mixed pathos with killer one-liners far better than the stop-start nature of Ben and Allison's relationship. Really, they're the reason I keep coming back to this film.

However, one moment does combine the two with flourish, and that's the delivery scene. Emotions overflow, and it results in a madcap, gloriously filthy sequence that remains one of the funnier scenes of recent years. Even if I no longer care more most of the lead-up, I never grow tired of these moments. Some may object to a certain visible object, but I thought it was hilarious. I mean, how often do you see a birth on film from that angle?

This used to be perhaps my favorite of the major products of Apatow Productions and, looking back, I cannot for the life of me figure out why. With the possible exception of Forgetting Sarah Marshall, all of the big AP movies drag, but none as overtly as this. Nevertheless, it's got enough gags to keep me coming back occasionally, and I particularly love the show-stealing moments from Alan Tudyk and Kristen Wiig. Knocked Up, sweet though it may be, doesn't offer any real insight into characters who have to grow up fast to deal with a serious situation (see Juno for that), and you can never really see why Allison would stay with Ben. However, I really do laugh for most of its running length, and isn't that what matters?

Note, I should mention that I am referring to the extended cut of the film, not the theatrical, so like The 40-Year-Old Virgin, its entirely possible that trimming the DVD fat would boost this film significantly, and when I check out the original version I'll write a little addendum if my opinion of the film changes significantly.

P.S. I rarely mention much about the DVD itself, but really, Knocked Up has to be one of the best DVD packages ever put out for a film that isn't some established hallmark of movie history (think Criterion). It's loaded with fake behind-the-scenes documentaries funnier than the film itself, complete with blistering improv segments from Ken Jeong, who plays Dr. Kuni. The only person who gets comedy DVDs that even rival this is Kevin Smith.