jon favreau's ELF (2003)

kevin smith's ZACK AND MIRI MAKE A PORNO (2008)

jim sharman's THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW (1975)

george clooney's LEATHERHEADS (2008)

quentin tarantino's PULP FICTION (1994)

john landis' ANIMAL HOUSE (1978)

joel & ethan coen's BURN AFTER READING (2008)

there's obviously a world of difference between Burn After Reading and last year's No Country For Old Men (it is, for example, reasonably certain that this one isn't going to put anyone of the receiving end of a golden statuette), but in the context of Joel and Ethan Coen's career the two films share a key characteristic: whether through steeled reaction to the relative failure of Intolerable Cruelty and The Ladykillers or simply a new phase in their career, the Brothers Coen seem a little bit broken.

this isn't to put down either film, of course; the mean, lean No Country earned every single ton of praise it received, and the sharp, silly Burn After Reading is a welcome homecoming for the 100% Coen screenplay after three consecutive adaptations. but the unfortunate fact is that both films find the Coens succeeding without throwing the full weight of their talents into the process, and while deference to Cormac McCarthy's novel gives No Country an easy pass, Burn After Reading's return-to-form potential brings the end result dangerously close to disappointment.

the film's story is comically and intentionally dense; it will suffice to say that it involves adultery, murder, blackmail, sensitive CIA documents and a dash of enthusiasm for hardwood flooring. the Coen hallmarks are all there, from the witty poetics and organic non-sequitirs to a seemingly unmanageable scenario that nonetheless wraps up in a tight, knee-slapping bow at the end. (there is also relentless scene stealing by Brad Pitt, reasserting the goofy verve we all thought he'd abandoned.)

but despite Burn After Reading's charms, the end result seems determinedly minor in the grand Coen scheme. the best (and that is to say most) of their films are rich with details that bring impossibly strange characters to vivid life, and in its brightest moments their peculiar wit is able to coax both comedically and dramatically profound moments from wherever it chooses. Burn After Reading, on the other hand, contents itself with the more modest goal of goofing expertly on the contemporary espionage thriller, and for what it's worth succeeds wildly; everything from Carter Burwell's hilariously dramatic score to random implied-first-person camera angles elevate the grandiose imbecility until it's clear that the film itself may be its own funniest joke. but that Joel and Ethan Coen have full control of their craft has never really been a point of contention, so it's a bit of a shame they wasted this particular post-Oscar limelight on a parlor trick, even if it is the funniest thing they've made this decade.

(from the KNOXVILLE VOICE)

dean parisot's GALAXY QUEST (1999)

i've always heard reserved-but-still-unreasonably-complimentary things about Galaxy Quest, and understand them quite well after seeing the movie: here is a determinedly three-star flick that could not really be any better. (that last part is a little ambiguous, but i mean it in the nicest way possible.) the scenario is genuinely clever, if not altogether ambitious, and the no-name writers and director earn their pay alongside a cast that (particularly in the case of Enrico Colantoni, as the smiley, spastic leader of an alien race) obviously had a lot of fun. entertainment at it's most inconsequential is entertainment still.

ben stiller's TROPIC THUNDER (2008)

david gordon green's PINEAPPLE EXPRESS (2008)

jacques tati's PLAYTIME (1967)

adam mckay's STEP BROTHERS (2008)

jody hill's THE FOOT FIST WAY and steve conrad's THE PROMOTION (2008)

there's an important bit of screenwriting wisdom stressing the odd but undeniable truth that comedy is a much harder thing to write than drama. where dramatic pieces only necessarily require the tangible minimums of storytelling (scenario, character, conflict) and leave everything else wide open, even the stupidest of comedy scripts ideally involves painstaking attention not only to what is or is not funny but also how to package it; after all, miscalculations in tone, pacing, or performance can conceivably mean the difference between belly laughs and bad times. (see: The Love Guru.)

(just kidding, please don't see The Love Guru.)

even harder is consideration of the comic character, which folds its requirements back into the more complicated realms of drama. it's not quite important that we believe the characters could exist (it's sufficient to understand how they might), but constructing a story around them requires something more: an emotional connection, however slight, is what keeps audiences in the seats even when the jokes start to spoil.

it's a credit to Jody Hill, then, that his The Foot Fist Way almost manages to succeed as a comedy despite careless disregard for any and all of these guidelines. here is a microbudgeted film (shot in Concord, NC) that remains microbudgeted in spirit, from the indifferent staging and inert pace to the woefully modest scope of its story, and for the most part lacks the sort of inspiration that typically leads a group of friends to make a feature film. throughout the running time there is vulgarity, misanthropy, awkwardness, and even misogyny.

ah, but there is also Danny McBride. perhaps recognizable to some from stolen scenes in David Gordon Green's underappreciated romance All The Real Girls or the probably-suitably-appreciated Hot Rod, the pudgy, mustachioed McBride plays Fred "King Of The Demo" Simmons, a small-town Tae Kwon Do instructor with an unfaithful wife, somewhat dubious credentials, and few friends beyond the children and smattering of adults that faithfully attend his dojo. there is a bit (only a bit) more to the story, but it's fair to say that the focus is much more on McBride than anything to do with the plot, as he gifts the almost forgettable film with a towering, ferociously deadpan comedic performance that has already facilitated his clean jump into mainstream comedy. (next up: a supporting role in Green's Apatow-produced stoner thriller Pineapple Express.) from getting riled up about 2-for-1 crab legs to cornering a pretty student with thickheaded advances, Fred Simmons is a living, breathing (and unmistakably Southern) dumbass, and McBride gives the comedic turn of the year so far.

until, that is, the film finally collapses under his weight. the amateur cast makes The Foot Fist Way's sloppy chug that much slower, and in the end the whole thing is done in by its limitations. though Fred Simmons is an undeniably funny character, neither the filmmakers nor the audience manage anything approaching real empathy on his behalf, and being put-upon and cheated on don't carry that much weight when we're indifferent to their victim's plight. The Foot Fist Way will doubtlessly achieve cult longevity (it was distributed by Will Ferrell, who would likely chair the film's fan club) but it's much more of a raw showcase than a comedic film.

Steve Conrad's The Promotion, on the other hand, has an embarrassment of riches where emotional identification is concerned. the story of two Chicago men (Seann William Scott and John C. Reilly) competing for the managership of their grocery chain's nearest location is ripe enough material for a light dramatic comedy by itself, but Conrard shakes things up by approaching the rivals with equal sympathy and intelligence, ensuring in the process that each member of the audience's moment-to-moment alliances will not only shift but do so independently of everyone else's.

the film is presented primarily from Scott's perspective (the narration is among the tonal debts to Alexander Payne's kindred Election) but we grow increasingly weary of his white lies and poor impulse control; Reilly, on the other hand, emerges as a shady, Canadian usurper to Scott's grocer throne but ends up charming with his innocence. over the course of the movie each man makes decisions and acts in ways that speak alternately well and ill of his character, and we are asked to determine for ourselves the worthiness of each choice.

The Promotion is nuanced, emotionally intelligent, and above all humanistic in a way few films are. Conrard (making his debut behind the camera after writing The Weather Man and The Pursuit Of Happyness) continues to explore the way people define themselves by the work they do, for better or worse, and when the dust settles on the titular promotion it's hard not to feel simultaneously glad and disappointed in the outcome. there are more hard laughs to be found in Foot Fist Way, but why bother with a caricature when the real thing is so much more satisfying?

(from the KNOXVILLE VOICE)

billy wilder's THE SEVEN YEAR ITCH (1955)

jon hurwitz & hayden schlossberg's HAROLD AND KUMAR ESCAPE FROM GUANTANAMO BAY (2008)

catching a dollar showing on a whim, it's hard not to wish i'd chosen to see H&K the night i grimaced through Baby Mama; there's something special about the rarefied breed of comedy that attempts very little and ends up succeeding enormously on its own terms. like the original Harold & Kumar, ...Escape From Guantanamo Bay treads good-naturedly through the episodic capers of its titular stoners, from a plane to Amsterdam (it picks up nearly immediately where the last one left off) to Gitmo to the American South and finally to Crawford, Texas, where Harold & Kumar share a puff or two with what may long stand as the friendliest portrayal of Dubya in a feature film. it's a thoroughly dumb movie, but also disarmingly likable and even occasionally clever; its satire manages to be at once gentle and over-the-top, and it finds surprisingly genial ways to ridicule both racial prejudice and the fever pitch of America's war on terror. it is what it is, and i wouldn't send anyone in unprepared for that, but if you're willing to go along with it Harold And Kumar Escape From Guantanamo Bay is one of the funniest films of the year so far.

michael bay's BAD BOYS II (2003)

i was suitably impressed the first time i saw it, on an empty afternoon's whim at the dollar theater, but watching it again solidifies a firm opinion that Bad Boys II is nothing less than the exemplary action film of this decade. (i'm troubled to think of anything that comes close.) it's also the reason i've found myself defending Michael Bay in the ensuing years, despite turning an eager, easy blind eye to Pearl Harbor and The Island: the bravado here, the complete command of an oft-obnoxious but quizzically sincere style, is a nutzoid textbook on 21st century montage. no film is bigger, no film is louder, no film more hyperactive.

sam raimi's EVIL DEAD 2: DEAD BY DAWN (1987)

two things stick out returning to Raimi's rough masterpiece, which i've been on hiatus from after wearing out my VHS copy in high school. first, Evil Dead 2 is still every bit as inspiring to me as a filmmaker as it was the first, second, and twentieth time i saw it; there's a freshness, wit and ingenuity to nearly every element that does an astounding job of obscuring the production's limitations, and it's no exaggeration to suggest it as the Citizen Kane of low-budget horror. secondly, and more specifically, the film's pacing is very nearly flawless; one of the curses of extreme familiarity with a work (even after several years i found myself anticipating favorite edits and minute sound cues) is that wasted scenes and poor sequence choices can become downright interminable, but Evil Dead 2 sails along briskly from the first frame to the last, never faltering in tone or energy.

nick stoller's FORGETTING SARAH MARSHALL and michael mccullers' BABY MAMA (2008)

to the relief of moviegoers everywhere, May is finally here: that magical time of year at the cineplex where spring's tepid garbage gives way to summer's really awesome garbage. that said, the end of 2008's Cinematic Dumping Ground season did have a surprising ace up its sleeve in the form of reasonably credible comedies, two of which at the very least cleared the low bar set by a PG-13 Prom Night remake and Al Pacino Cashes A Paycheck: The Motion Picture.

Nick Stoller's Forgetting Sarah Marshall (co-scripted by star Jason Segel and produced by Judd "Please Stop Talking About Me" Apatow) is the better of the two, but still merits more of a discussion of what doesn’t work than what does. it’s every bit as amiably ribald as the Apatow crew’s previous work (and a decided step up from the disappointing Walk Hard) but here and there it’s hard to deny the smell of diminishing returns, as their emphasis on character humor and loose pacing over plot-driven gags (and gag-driven plots) has finally resulted in a film that is constantly on the verge of unraveling altogether. Segel and his supporting players all do strong work, and there are scattered moments of surprising emotional intelligence, but Forgetting Sarah Marshall still feels more like a paid Hawaiian vacation for a group of very funny people than a real movie.

Michael McCullers’ Baby Mama, on the other hand, feels very much like a movie. very much, in fact, like many, many other movies. it's not that the premise (a surrogate pregnancy turns into The Odd Couple) isn't worthy, or that stars Tina Fey and Amy Poehler aren't long overdue for a big-screen showcase; the problem is that McCullers seems to put both of those can't-lose elements directly at odds with a half-baked second draft of a script heavy on plot mechanics and astonishingly light on laughs. sure, there's plenty of what could technically be called jokes -- we hear them, placidly acknowledge them, and continue watching -- but the whole affair is determinedly shallow and mediocre, which is especially painful in the hands of the women behind 30 Rock and Upright Citizens Brigade. to their estimable credit, Fey's confident leading lady debut and Poehler's irrepressible comic instincts ("It feels like I'm shitting a knife" may be history's most succinct description of the miracle of childbirth) make the film perfectly watchable, and occasionally pull a big laugh out of the blue. but comedy fans in search of a worthy feminine alternative to the Apatow Boy's Club will have to search a bit longer, as Baby Mama goes no deeper into the female mind, and doesn't seem to have anywhere near as much fun trying.

(from the KNOXVILLE VOICE)

richard kelly's SOUTHLAND TALES (2006)

"evacuate the atrium, move to the rear of the mega-zeppelin."
- Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson (as Boxer Santoros), delivering the best line of his storied career

finally released on DVD after years of tweaking and an embarrassingly minor theatrical run, Richard Kelly’s Southland Tales is the story of a dimwitted porn star, an amnesiac conservative actor, an alternative energy baron, the head of a national surveillance agency, a ice-cream truck driving arms dealer, bong-huffing neo-Marxist extortionists, a southern senator, a soldier slinging a drug called Liquid Karma, and two suspiciously identical policemen, among many others. an attempted summary of the film’s story would turn into a list twice as long, as full of tangents and halfbaked notions as genuine plot points. Southland Tales is a movie of Ideas, and it wants you to know that. it’s cerebral, but also deadly silly and stupid.

more than anything, though, the key descriptor for Kelly’s follow-up to his much-loved, much-puzzled-over Donnie Darko is audacity. for the first twenty minutes, it’s hard to shake the feeling that the whole thing’s just a big joke, as a scarred-up Iraq veteran (Justin Timberlake) introduces us to a present-day post-apocalypse California, our primary players, and leagues of paranoiac backstory set to a series of glossy, over-designed effects. considering Kelly cut forty minutes out of the film following a positively disastrous Cannes screening, it’s hard to begrudge him the unfortunate Band-Aid of awkward exposition, but the scope of what he introduces, the obviously non-chewable bites he takes right off the bat, still leave you primed for the biggest cinematic goof since Freddy Got Fingered. (or at the very least Lady In The Water…that one was a joke, right?) and for an hour afterwards, it just plods forward without particular drive or interest.

then a funny thing happens: everything starts falling together. not in the way Kelly probably envisioned as this bloated clown originally emerged from his word processor, mind you, but falling together nonetheless. throughout Southland Tales’ running time it pretends pathetically to the thrones of Vonnegut, Robert Altman and Philip K Dick, but when it’s honest with itself there’s really quite a lot to be said for the film as a sort of slick, maximalist heir to Repo Man. it’s a shaggy dog story full of metaphysical lunacy and infuriatingly dense storytelling, with none of the patient, melancholy character work that make Donnie Darko so beguiling. but whether it deserves it or not, it redeems itself in small ways amid the mess, and ends up working unexpectedly well on its own terms, which is all you can really ask of it. it’s not hard to see why so many have tossed Southland Tales aside as a disaster, but the curious shouldn’t be dissuaded.

(from the KNOXVILLE VOICE)

joss whedon's SERENITY (2005)

how embarrassing for George Lucas that the summer of Sith should come to an end with a piece of science fiction that succeeds so wildly on every level that his Star Wars prequels failed. with Serenity Whedon gives his nearly-perfect Firefly the grandest sendoff imaginable without skipping a beat; the finale is every bit as lively, inspired, and downright fun as the series' best, but it's also astonishingly comfortable as a feature, and as much as Whedon impresses as a first-time director, it's still his writing that steals the show. i'm not talking about the trademark banter (which, in another trademark, occasionally misfires), but rather the spotless transition of scope and structure from hourlong to feature length that shines a light on Whedon as a trully accomplished screenwriter; the bravura opening sequence alone is a graduate class in both construction and unobtrusive exposition, pulling the uninitiated into Firefly's universe with one hand and giving old fans a welcoming pat on the back with the other. whether it's television, film, or even comics, there's little excuse for people not to be constantly throwing money at Joss Whedon.