Beauties and the Schlep

I’ve only been to a screening once before, for “Match Point” in 2006. They really do make you feel pretty important, screenings. For this one, they even had a girl in a hula skirt present me with a lei after they patted me down for recording equipment. Nice of them.

I remember we didn’t run a review of “Match Point” until after the film’s release, so I don’t even know if I’m allowed to write this, but, whatever, I’m going to anyway. The hell with protocol…right? Now watch some Hollywood kneecrackers tackle me tomorrow evening as I sit here in my computer chair in gym shorts and a sombrero watching Jabbawockeez videos. I don’t think I’d even fight back.

My friend declared the other day that she doesn’t approve of movies where “the schleppy guy gets the hot girl.” I guess I can see that. In this one, “Schleppy guy #1” is Jason Segal of “Freaks and Geeks.” Doughy, pasty, and sweatpants-clad-if-clad-at-all, he plays a good one. Does he not deserve the girl? Well, at least in my book, if the schleppy guy writes the movie, the schleppy guy does what he wants.

Peter Bretter (Segal) is a musical composer for a hit cop show starring his long-time bombshell girlfriend Sarah Marshall (Kristen Bell, “Veronica Mars”), who, as we find out almost immediately, has “found someone else” and cannot be with Peter anymore. It’s very hard news for Peter, who loves her very much, and it’s very hard news for us that we must watch him—all of him—as he takes it, in the nude. This is not heteronormative glossing. His five or six full frontals are a lot of lumpy paleness to bear—for anyone. I have to admit, though, I was kind of amused. (And I felt a little better about my body.)

The awkwardness continues when, after a few rounds of inadvisable sex, Peter decides to get away to Hawaii where, sure enough, Sarah Marshall herself is also vacationing with her new boyfriend, British rockstar Aldous Snow (Russell Brand, the actor, not the athletic equipment). The situation itself is unfortunate enough, but the real genius in the writing is the incredibly stupid and masochistic way Peter deals with it. Anybody who’s been in a similar situation knows the hideous truth of it—the sneaking around, just aching for a glimpse of exactly what we don’t want to see. No one knows why. We just know it hurts, and we laugh because it’s not us.

As luck would have it, though, the front desk chick is really hot, and she feels some sympathy for Peter and his predicament. Who knew Mila Kunis could act? The ditzy chick from “That 70’s Show” turns in a believable star performance as Rachel, college dropout turned Hawaiian resort clerk, and manages to maintain an buoyant chemistry with Peter—despite a serious deviation on the pulchritude scale.

Surrounding them is one of the funniest assortments supporting characters in recent cinema: a strung-out surfer (Paul Rudd, “Knocked Up”); an obsessive super-fan waiter (Jonah Hill, “Superbad”); a nervous, poorly-endowed honeymooner and his sex-hungry bride (Jack McBrayer, “30 Rock” and Maria Thayer, “Strangers with Candy”); a giant, shiny-headed Hawaiian sage (Taylor Wily), a hotel staffer obsessed with sea turtle copulation (Davon McDonald), and Peter’s “happily” married step-brother (Bill Hader, “Superbad”). McBrayer is especially funny as the recently de-flowered and baffled newlywed, mumbling airily about the “mythical clitoris” and eventually taking sex lessons from the knowledgeable Aldous.

While “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” is funny—very funny—it also has, in the tradition of “Superbad” and “Knocked Up” before it, a degree of sanguinity and tenderness that penetrates in a way that other screwball comedies cannot. Even the evil Sarah Marshall shows her human side once or twice, and we can sympathize. I hate to use the phrase, “it had a lot of heart” to describe a movie. I think what people really mean when they say that—and I’m guilty—is that it affected more than their diaphragms and their cheeks. I don’t think I could say that about “Happy Gilmore,” but I can say it here. Despite its highly improbable concept, this movie has something real-life about it, and it deals with a phenomenon—coping with a lost love—that almost everyone has gone through or will go through (fortunately? unfortunately?). “Sarah Marshall” is a rarity. It’s comically outlandish and dangerously real. It’s life. It’s the best kind of funny.

Loser, Loser, Movie Chooser.

The folks behind “21” were dealt a great hand. The idea of six MIT students burning Vegas for millions is compelling enough—some “Good Will Hunting” meets “Ocean’s Eleven” sort of appeal. And then add to that that it’s based on a true story, and you’ve got yourself a movie pitch—and a lot of promising fodder.

Unfortunately, they’ve screwed it up. All they had to do was retell, with a little style, an already-fascinating true story. But, no. They farted out some kind of gaudy miasma of bright lights and MTV transitions. You know those girls who take their cell phones and glue little plastic jewels to their entire surfaces? I believe the technical verb for that is “Bedazzle®.” Well, this is a Bedazzled® “Rounders.” I loved “Rounders.” There was no need to cover it with tiny plastic jewels.

(It just occurred to me that every movie I’ve referenced so far has Matt Damon in it. I’m going to see if I can keep that up.)

As far as the story goes, though: Ben Campbell (Jim Sturgess, “Across the Universe”) is wicked smart. But all he ever does is study, and, to get his scholarship to Harvard Med, he needs something to make himself stand out among all the other near-perfect candidates. A “life experience,” they call it. He’d like to find one. But, strangely enough, one finds him when he’s confronted by Professor Micky Rosa (Kevin Spacey) and his posse of gifted MIT students who spend their weekends at the Vegas blackjack tables, counting cards and making un-college amounts of money. After Ben’s finally convinced to fall in league with them, he quickly becomes the prodigy of the outfit, usurping the former “big player,” Fisher (Jacob Pitts, “Eurotrip”) and setting off the initial drama. And so begins your typical tragicomic sine wave. Rise-fall-rise, El fin.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with the story’s arc. It’s real, after all. But when the director throws in 600 jump cuts and hires a Foley artist with Ecstasy problems, no one can pay attention to the story. I can understand that maybe the effects were utilized in order to communicate a certain surrealism associated with Vegas and Money, but they are used to such an extent that they become distracting and even irritating. Consequently, the audience, in self-defense, recedes into the safety of blank stares and daydreams. Personally, I found myself wishing Jacob Pitts would begin spouting his sex-crazed lines from “Eurotrip” (featuring Matt Damon!) and wondering where in God’s name I’d seen Miles (Josh Gad) before.

Had the writing been better, the movie may have been salvageable. Unfortunately, though, the jokes fall flat and the romantic chemistry between the two “involved” stars fizzles itself into mere vapors. One can’t blame the acting. Even Mr. Spacey, could make nothing from the material. I had been wondering why they’d decided to put the “stop calling me ‘dude’” line in the preview, but I understand now that it’s, sadly, one of the funniest lines in the movie.

Maybe, in ten years, Hollywood can recycle this story and make a quality flick out of it. Maybe they can hire some sharper writers and a mature director to make it. Maybe they can nix the jump cuts and the clumsy voiceover and the mind-numbing repetition of the profound “Winner, winner, chicken dinner.” But, until then, the table’s cold.