Film

Concessions

In This Metaphor, Hollywood Is the Poop

by Lindy West

Hey, here's an idea: Maybe we don't let Jon Lucas and Scott Moore write movies anymore. Eh? EH? In the past half-decade alone, these dudes have subjected us to Four Christmases ("I want them all to drown in their own eggnog vomit," wrote Jen Graves), Ghosts of Girlfriends Past ("One suspects that this screenplay was written not by a professional human writer, but by Matthew McConaughey's actual penis," wrote me), Full of It (big-screen vehicle for Ryan Pinkston, that man-child thing who used to be on Punk'd), and Rebound (Martin Lawrence something something basketball something fart). WHY ARE THESE HUMANS STILL EMPLOYED? For that matter, what are the rules for a "citizen's arrest"? Is that really a thing? Do I need to show my papers?

Not only are Lucas and Moore still employed and roaming unshackled on city streets (THAT MY TAXES PAY FOR!), they're behind The Hangover, the new R-rated comedy that is so outrageous and so busy generating so much buzz that a sequel is already in the works. Hollywood, you are really a piece of shit, do you know that? Who pooped you out and called you an industry, Hollywood? Because whoever pooped you out called, Hollywood, on the toilet phone, and they want their poop back. (What? Why would someone want their poop back? Not my problem! Fertilizer? Sentimental value? For their records? Listen, shut up.)

The Hangover is a waste of a fairly genius premise (three dudes wake up after an all-night Vegas rampage with a baby, a tiger, and amnesia). It stars quite a few of the funniest persons working in comedy today: Ed Helms, Zach Galifianakis, Bradley Cooper (not just a beautiful face and boday, you guys!), Jeffrey Fucking Tambor, Rob Riggle, Matt Walsh, Mike Tyson, and a baby. (The baby's performance is epic.) The direction (by Old School's Todd Phillips) is adequate enough to produce a functioning narrative. But Lucas and Moore wouldn't know a good joke if it was their loyal old dog/best friend who defended them from a rabid wolf and then, with breaking hearts, they had to shoot it in the head. They'd just go, "Haha, gay," and then they'd be like, "Dude, write that down!" and then in summer of 2010, America would rush to the Cineplex to watch Old Yeller 2: Rabies? More Like Gay-bies!

There are funny moments, definitely (really!), but approximately all of them involve whatever's happening between Zach Galifianakis's neck and Zach Galifianakis's hair. Because the dude is a comedy treasure (and if this movie causes him to "jump" any "sharks" like my beloved Jack Black, I am prepared to fight everyone [FYI: I HAVE WOLF RABIES]). The stuff that's actually written down is mostly cheap gay jokes ("Paging Dr. Faggot!") and cheaper OMG-I-can't-believe-they-went-there jokes ("Our best friend Doug is probably face down in a ditch somewhere with a methhead buttfucking his corpse"). Please. I laughed harder at Old Yeller.