Forgetting Sarah Marshall: Forget those flaws!

3.5 stars

Sometimes it's tough to like Judd Apatow. I liked The 40 Year Old Virgin, loved Knocked Up, and tolerated Superbad -- it's not really the movies themselves that provoke these qualms. It's the fact that the guy puts out a few good movies and all of a sudden he's arrogant enough to have his own BRAND of film? Now a "Judd Apatow" film doesn't mean that Apatow himself had anything to do with it, it means that the film was created under a certain set of principles (touching comedies about less than perfect dudes) and most likely feature one or more cast members from Freaks and Geeks.

Let's be honest, though. The Apatow empire exists because of us -- because movie studio execs know that you and I are going to fork over cash to see a still somehow fresh brand of comedy with a little meat on its bones. It's true. These movies are damn funny. So damn funny that EVEN I am willing to ignore the occasional backslide into disturbing misogyny (depending on the circumstances, of course) and allow myself to just be entertained.

Forgetting Sarah Marshall has the benefit of this kind of script, the script that makes or breaks an otherwise ho-hum plot. Funny, inventive, full of characters, multi-dimensional, never boring, and only slightly flawed (Mila Kunis's character is dull and unconvincing, and it seems the filmmakers couldn't quite agree on whether or not to villainize Sarah Marshall (Kristen Bell)), Jason Segel's screenplay is clearly a labor of love. And even more so than Knocked Up, maybe, Forgetting Sarah Marshall has the benefit of universality. We've all seen relationships wither, we've all felt like it was the end of the world, and we've all run into our ex and their current paramour frolicking in bathing suits in Hawaii.* That being said, though, heartbreak is not exactly the most unique subject for a film, but neither was Knocked Up's "unlikely people fall in love" theme.

The difference is in the details. Any of Russell Brand's lines - or even movements - could have singlehandedly saved this movie from disaster. As Albous Snow, Sarah's spidery, STDed British rock star new boyfriend, Brand manages to depart from the stereotype of pure pop idiocy and instead creates some sort of long-legged version of The (BBC) Office's David Brent, while also remaining affable, self-obsessed, and almost blase about his own sexual prowess -- all at once! Hardly anything he does is what's expected, and you find yourself on the same boat as Jason Segel's Peter, the main character, as he tries really hard to hate his rival but instead keeps having to admit to himself that the guy is pretty effing cool.

Director Nicholas Stoller did an admirable job with the quick, sharp flashbacks that pepper the film's forward motion. They make jokes jokier a la Family Guy, of course, but the fast-paced splicing also adds depth that helps Forgetting Sarah Marshall angle for a spot among the numerous "real" comedies that have proudly received acclaim in recent months. I can't promise that this film will hold its own in the pantheon of Apatow films for long (the Pineapple Express trailer is probably the best trailer ever). it's true that uneven editing and continuity plague this film throughout,** but it's almost a testament to the writing -- and a relief to the rest of you -- that I didn't dwell on it. I'm too busy repeating quotes from the movie and giggling like a freaking frat boy. I'm not too proud to reveal that we were doing this before we even left the theater.


*Figuratively.
**The boring Rachel (Mila Kunis) is retouched in some shots and not in others. Hair is one way, then another. We even saw some booms (but I think something may have been wrong with the alignment in our theater).

Leatherheads: George, Let's never talk about this again

I'm really hoping that this is comedy's year. The Oscars are slowly reflecting America's fatigue of big, sweeping epics in favor of more detailed and experimental character studies (a result of our war weariness perhaps?), and in the last couple of years, little, well-made comedies have inched closer and closer to the forefront. Little Miss Sunshine was universally beloved, and Juno was so popular that it even caused its own backlash of Coldplay proportions ("How dare the mainstream recognize a movie I enjoyed?? It must not be as good as I remembered it to be!"). Could it be a 2008 comedy that will finally win Best Picture, indicating that a great movie doesn't necessarily have to be a weighty one?

Oh no no no, I don't mean Leatherheads. Heck no! Although I have to be honest, I did smile happily during the first half of the film, thinking, "Of course, it'll be George Clooney who directs that lucky comedy that brings home the gold." And you can't really blame me. Leatherheads starts out so, so promising. Renee Zellweger is sassy, Jon Krasinski is adorable, and we all settle comfortably into our seats, anticipating Clooneyish delights galore.

And for awhile, all goes as planned. It even strikes a nice balance of being a sports movie without really involving too much actual sport, playing with the beginnings of professional football in a way that even blockheads like me can understand. And even blockheads like me get that the majority of the film's jokes lie on the presumption that we all know pro football is now hugely popular, wildly flashy, and involves lots of rules. So there I am, listening to a Randy Newman score that is nostalgic of both the 1920s and the 1980s reenacting the 1920s,* thinking this could be the next The Natural or at the very least, A League of Their Own, when suddenly it's 90 minutes later and I'm trying to keep myself awake by desperately attempting to figure out who is to blame for the boring, poorly written story that is dragging out interminably on the screen before me.

Believe me, I tried like the dickens to hold the screenwriters accountable (Duncan Brantley and Ricky Reilly). And to a large extent it is their fault for not tightening up their game, closing some loops, or their eerie punishment of characters that really don't deserve it while awarding those that do. But, try as I might, I can't pardon the Cloonz. A better director might have highlighted minute parts of the script that were necessary to beef up because of the information's vital role in the second half or created more sympathy for those who win the day and less sympathy for those who don't. That's your job, Director Clooney.

How about some screentime devoted to the colorful characters within the team? Sure, that might be a tired gag, but it would have helped a chuckle escape our lips when we see some visual epilogues about them at the end. That said, I can't let the actors off too easily. Chemistry fizzles out, Krasinski's puppy eyes begin to grate on the nerves, and though she started out strong, Zellweger turns out to be far, far away from the Katharine Hepburn-like character she clearly aspires to play. I have a vague recollection that Clooney is supposed to be some kind of shady, lovable character, but all we ever really know about the grizzled Dodge Connelly is that he has a quick wit and really, really wants professional football to get off the ground.

All of these misfires and probably more cause Leatherheads to taper off in the second half into flat nothingness. I would list them, but I am blinded by stinging tears of disappointment. Stick to acting comedic roles in other directors' films, George. Your directing talents are significant, it's true**, but I'm not sure if I can handle another one of these...these incidents. If you'd like to make it up to me, I will be happy to get together for drinks later to discuss.

*As my date said while watching the sepia-toned photographs of the title sequence pan by to the tune of a jangly piano, "I feel like we're watching an episode of Cheers."
**Check out Good Night and Good Luck! For reals!