I’ve been stressing about how to handle the delicate subject matter within The Invention of Lying. One might assume based on marketing, that the new Ricky Gervais* film is merely a clever romantic comedy jam-packed with amusing cameos and self-deprecating humor, but it’s so, so much more. In fact, you so, so might walk out of the theater, even, and that’s because the Jim Carrey-esque premise is actually an excuse to wax philosophic about human nature.

And you may not be thrilled with some of the conclusions.

Let’s cover the less controversial ones first! Delay the inevitable! OK, so in the world Mark (Gervais) lives in, nobody has ever lied. Ever! And because it’s never happened, they can’t even fathom the concept. For some reason this also causes them to speak their minds at times when they should shut their traps, and I’m not sure if that’s just for the sake of comedy (imagine a waiter handing you your drink and letting you know that he took a sip on the way over) or if it’s our sense of well-intentioned deceit that we DON’T say exactly what we’re thinking.

It’s interesting to think about. Dumpy, depressed Mark is really into Anna (Jennifer Garner), who is not only beautiful but, we’re told, is also an angel inside. This is a little hard to swallow sometimes, because that woman sure thinks some shallow things – people wearing glasses (??) sitting on a park bench are “losers” and she can’t be with Mark simply because he’s not attractive enough to provide her with pretty kids. Even “I’m just not attracted to you and it’s important that I’m physically into a guy that I’m with” would have been better than “Beautiful genes are the most important thing to me, sorry.” It seems as if the writers (Gervais and Matthew Robinson) believe that in our world, Anna would be a perfect female specimen because she'd be keeping judgmental stuff to herself. I find that a little difficult to swallow.

However, the comparison of Truth World to Real World reveals a lot of things, usually humorously, occasionally poignantly, and sometimes shockingly. For instance, without lies, movies really blow. Fiction, you see, was never invented. Advertising’s purpose is to remind consumers that a product exists and to plead them to buy it. Life in general is a little drab, and the ability to lie is a good thing. That suicidal guy in your building would probably be relieved if you told him that everything was going to turn around for him one day. A part of a doctor’s bedside manner is largely based, we now see, on half-truths and hopeful expressions. We tend to think of lying as a bad thing, but Gervais and Robinson make it very clear that in certain situations, we do each other a disservice when we tell the truth. Or, at least, the truth as we see it.

All right, the time has come for me to grit my teeth and go for it, here. A huge part of this movie is about how religion is a lie. Mark develops the ability to say things that aren't true, and as a result can convince anyone to do anything he wants. This includes telling his dying mother that the terrifying eternity of nothingness that is her death staring her in the face will actually be a lot more pleasant than she thinks. It’ll be a place where you’ll go on living forever, he says. Where you can have your own mansion, and everybody you love will be there waiting for you. To Mark, the relieved look on her face as she finally passes away is worth the deception, but the unintended consequence is that the hospital staff members who overheard are very, very interested in this whole afterlife idea. Within 24 hours, he’s mobbed by an entire planet that has obviously been oppressed by the fear of death and is desperate to hear that there is something more to life than this. Under enormous pressure, he sits down at his desk and invents religion. The effects are hilarious and eye-opening. Or a little infuriating, depending on your views.

I figure there are enough movies with religious undertones that a blatantly (and literally) agnostic film shouldn’t cause any riots, especially since the movie as a whole is consistently both uproariously funny and sweetly touching. But who knows, maybe knowing about the subject matter before buying tickets will help those who may not agree to accept that this is one point of view and will allow them to sit back and enjoy the writing. And if they can’t, maybe they’ll just opt to see something else instead. Either way, you can’t say I didn’t tell you the truth.

*...whose position in the rom-com world is rising to a surprising prominence, don't you think?

To be archived here later on!

In other news, I....am on Twitter. I don't really know how to use it well, but I am trying! Maybe someone will find that endearing??? Follow me at: twitter.com/susanhowson.

No complaints thus far. Of the movies I've seen lately, I've only got nitpicking to do. John Dillinger puts the sexy in sexism in Public Enemies. I was angry at myself for rooting for a chauvenist with a fairly inconsistent regard for human life, but it wasn't my fault. Michael Mann threw Johnny Depp at me, who was able to complete a movie without indulging in any delightfully spooky makeup or characterization. I wouldn't have even recognized him if I hadn't seen his face in my dreams every night. Have I said too much.

He robs banks and orders women to be his life partners! Yet I am smitten!

Last week I finally caught Away We Go, which I'd heard was only meh. Sure, it was typically over the top with tiny emotional climaxes, as Sam Mendes is wont to do, but brush all that painful poignancy aside, and you've got a funny couple with that charming tousled-and-a-little-lost look, who are refreshingly devoid of relationship problems. It's not that they're better than you, it's that they are you. In some ways it's the opposite of his last picture, Revolutionary Road. Solid couple with a really imperfect life that turns out to be perfect anyway. Just reverse all those meanings and you've got ol' Leo and Kate, chasing each other through the woods and having awkward affairs.

I'm not sure I could find much fault with Drag Me to Hell, however. Adorable, deliciously scary (as opposed to the kind of scary that keeps you up at night. Maliciously scary?), and impeccably timed are things I would say. But no matter how much I try, I can't get anyone to believe me. "It's campy and great!" I say. "The trailer is terrifying. I'm not into being scared," they say before not sharing their chips. Bitchez! I'm not into being scared either. What's wrong with my guarantee that you will not wake up in the middle of the night terrified that the corpse of an old woman will spew embalming fluid on you?

On DVD, I've had some good finds lately as well. I don't know why it took me so long to watch Mystery Train, having warmly embraced most of Jim Jarmusch's other films long ago. I think a girl in a class I had once gave a long boring presentation about it, so in my mind the poor movie would be tedious and involve a lot of Xeroxed handouts. It's Jarmusch in Memphis, only more colorful than usual, and a little more precious than most of his older films. Other than that, it's been a lot of True Blood and The Wire lately, as I just moved house, and our energy at night isn't what it used to be. I mean, like, a month ago.

While packing I re-re-rediscovered some brilliant Mr. Show moments. Discover Josh Fenderman, won't you?

With all the right, what the public didn\'t see coming were all the wrongs

My sister is one of the few people in the world* who could conceivably convince me to help her pick up blood and guts and bits of bone from crime scenes (but luckily our collaboration efforts have thus far not exceeded blogging together about an insane magazine). She'd have to try REALLY hard though, and we'd definitely need the "My kid needs money for school and both of us are getting nowhere with our current jobs" motivation that the adorable sisters Rose and Norah Lorkowski have in Megan Holley's first film, Sunshine Cleaning.

Holley's put together a pretty standard, no-frills, "my life hasn't quite turned out like I'd like it to be," boutique flick. It's at times charming and at times distressing, like The Savages, only replace Philip Seymour Hoffman with Amy Adams (which might be a good tactic to lighten up lots of other drab movies as well -- just stick Amy Adams in dark corners to provide a little cheer and you're done!). Everyone is sort of wrily pitiful and no one has it all figured out, but flaws are eventually embraced and family ties strengthened. I don't need to cover any of the plot in more detail.

The standout parts of Sunshine Cleaning are the distinct talents of Adams (who plays the older sister, Rose, who was something of a beauty queen in high school but now struggles to raise her kid alone) and Emily Blunt (younger sister Norah, who I'd describe as an excellent aunt but confusingly costumed). Of course, Alan Arkin is no slouch, and it was somehow comforting to see him in a heartwarming movie so soon after I'd seen Wait Until Dark. Unfortunately, he's a little typecast in his role of doting yet shady grandfather, but it's all right. What family relationship hasn't been done to death?

When I saw Waitress, which comes across similarly, I swore it was moving and fantastic, but I think it took me about a month to forget it existed. Sunshine Cleaning would run that same risk if it weren't for its particularly morbid setting, that, is the world of an aspiring crime scene cleanup crew. They do say "crime scene" in the film a lot, but what they really mean is "gory or disgusting death in fetid living spaces," which is what Rose and Norah seem to end up cleaning most of the time. The job pays well, they hear, so they start from the blood-soaked ground and work their way up, finding that, for Rose at least, cleaning up someone's terrible demise makes her feel a little more complete. Nora has other issues, which you'll discover, that also involve grisly endings that can't be cleaned up so easily, but in the meantime, we get to learn all sorts of things about a niche industry that are fascinating in a disgusting way.

Although, the main character in Waitress found her completeness in pies, which I find fascinating in a delicious way, and I still forgot about it a month later, so we'll see.

*Also, George Clooney.

All my pals responded with enthusiastic yawns when I said I had In Bruges at home from Netflix, so I put it off for like a month. What a dumb month that was. What was I doing all that time, playing Zelda and reading fantasy novels? Please. I could have spent that 30 days watching a delightfully bloody and weird black comedy (the best kind of comedy??), in which Mad-Eye Moody and Voldemort play around with guns while Colin Farrell makes Ron Weasley-like eyebrow movements.

But that's where the Harry Potter similarities end.

JK, they totally continue! Mad-Eye and Ron, otherwise known as Ken (Brendan Gleeson) and Ray (formerly-disgusting-but-suddenly-cute-as-a-button Farrell), may be hit men instead of wizards, but the Belgian town of Bruges, in which they are hiding out after a botched job, is bursting with medieval appeal, a veritable "Hogwarts," if you will. A f***ing fairyland.*

The contrast between bloody killers (with hearts of gold, of course) and a city that seriously looks like you could eat it for dessert provides much of the humor. To Ken, who's more seasoned and less skittish than the young, dashing, and idiotic Ray, this unplanned stopover in Bruges is something to savor. He drinks in the history and feasts his eyes on beautiful spires of1500 year old churches while Ray, who is in danger of unraveling with nerves, views Bruges as the worst sort of purgatory imaginable, a quaint one where nothing happens. That is, until he realizes that someone is filming a movie in Bruges - and one that involves a dwarf! Let the fun begin!

Martin McDonagh's first movie, In Bruges doesn't blow up traditional plot conflicts or anything. Putting unlikely people in an unlikely setting is pretty tried but true, and McDonagh managed to put together a great script and also to hire talent that you don't see every day. Especially from these blokes. I'm not saying these actors haven't earned their stripes (well, I sort of am saying that about Farrell), but let's admit that we've come to expect certain things from certain people. Ray and Ken's boss, the verbally inappropriate Harry (Ralph Fiennes), pays a nice visit to this charming town, in an attempt to clean up some messes and stalk around moodily. Fiennes is no stranger to playing a moody asshole, but folks seem to tend to ring him up when they have need of a terribly cold, snide, and undeniably evil moody asshole. Luckily for us, he took the job of protraying a tantrum-prone, cockney killer (killer-boss? boss of killers? it's not entirely clear what he actually does), who has a soft spot for children and edible, dessert-like towns.

McDonagh clearly shares that view. About Bruges, anyway. No matter how unlikable a character is, they seem to take on a sort of golden glow as soon as they set foot into town. Drug dealers, killers....everyone is a little more charming in Bruges. Unless, you're a fat American tourist, it seems. We can't catch a break.

*Inside joke with people who've seen the movie. Where my Brugies at??

I found myself in New York (for those of you who have a map on their basement wall with pins in it, following my progress around the world) this weekend, and I got pumped about seeing something different and special that we wouldn't get here until two weeks before it came out on DVD. And...nothing! I guess there is a lull right before Oscar contenders burst onto the scene, and it's possible the cinematic world could be holding its breath in desperate anticipation of this Friday's Beverly Hills Chihuahua, but whatever the case may be, my options were limited. So we escaped the rain and the crowds and ducked into Ghost Town.

If you haven't seen the BBC version of The Office, you haven't lived. Or, more accurately, you haven't experienced the uniquely soul-crushing mortification that Ricky Gervais's David Brent* can cause. Gervais is so associated with the character that it's difficult to separate him from David in other shows and movies (like HBO's Extras), yet somewhere along the line, Ricky clearly met and carefully studied a former roommate of mine. This dear fellow (you are close to my heart, dude), who eventually became a fine, upstanding, caring creature, was formerly quite content living life as a tidy little snot. Bertram Pincus, D.D.S. (Gervais) is not so misguided that he thinks he's happy this way, it's just that he thinks this is the way things have to be. People are obnoxious, everything is stupid, you live alone, you die alone, let's just get on with it.

Gosh, it even makes my heart break just to remember it. He gets better, of course, but at a slower, more realistic pace than you might expect from a film of this ilk. I mean, the rest of the movie is classic romantic comedy drivel that would be in danger of collapsing into an overly silly heap, but Bertram Pincus, D.D.S...he's the kind of character that can elevate even a horribly-titled film about ghosts living in New York City. Well, whatever, I guess some sort of device had to set the wheels of poignancy in motion so that Bertram can find the motivation to change his tune, and it might as well be ghosts who need closure or something. Greg Kinnear can phone it in all he wants, it doesn't matter. Everyone in this film is just a backdrop to the least glamorous person in it -- a dentist who becomes a tiny bit happier. Who says a horribly-titled romantic comedy can't be beautiful?** Turns out all you need to do is just provide it with an overdone framework, next to which an extraordinary talent looks even better. Maybe you keep a couple of other goals in mind too, like not casting the reigning starlet, or directing it with an elegant hand, but after that, you should be set.

I can't guarantee that if you see this film you'll be surprised or amazed or astounded, but chances are, you will wonder why it feels so different. 'Tis the long lost shadow of the everyman! And, except for the whole talking to ghosts thing, maybe it's OK to watch someone's life change in a more ordinary way. It can't be Stardust every year, right?***

*You may know the character as Steve Carell's Michael Scott.
**Answer: a lot of people.
***Ricky Gervais is actually in Stardust too! Totally coincidence, I swear.

[rating 3.5/5]

I read a folk story once about this guy who was lost in the woods for some weeks and found some old crone who gave him what he thought was the most delicious dish in the world but what turned out later to be something akin to Dirt Soup. Anyway, the point was that when we are truly starved for something, any sample of it – even of the poorest quality – will taste like the food of the gods.

At the risk of rambling on about personal stuff (although Matt White gets to do it every week), this weekend I embarked on a really ill-fated rat king of a trip. In fact, at time of writing, I am still on it. Now it’s just my old nemesis, JFK Airport, between me and my home and cats and allergy medicine,* but two days ago I had what seemed like an endless succession of effed up plans ahead of me. Yesterday, I ended up in Boston with my excellent friend from Chicago, who had run into her own personalized set of travel disasters, and we limply, exhaustedly staggered over to a movie theater, ready to sit for a few hours in the A/C and take whatever Ben Stiller cared to deliver.

Also, I ask you to remember that I was still smarting from last week’s utter Judd Apatow disappointment, and although the cold, dark lump that until this weekend had once been my heart still had enough life left inside it to muster up some tremors on behalf of Robert Downey, Jr., I wasn’t expecting to be mightily impressed.

But you know what? Screw all of this. I don’t need any excuses. I laughed more during the first five minutes of Tropic Thunder than I have laughed during all of the movies I’ve seen this summer combined. Except for a few parts that spent too long delving into male bonding territory (zzzzzz),** this film was just what I needed to get back on my feet.

You’ve seen the ads – Tropic Thunder is about the egos, insecurity, coddling, stupidity, self-obsession, and ass-kissing that is the commercial filmmaking industry. So we are led to believe, anyway, because theoretically, the makers of this film (Ben Stiller and Justin Theroux aka John Hancock) (yow!) are also products of this industry, yet they seem pretty self-aware. Most interestingly, the ultimate poster boy for the borderline crazy image-obsessed actor is part of Tropic Thunder’s cast (you probably already know who it is, but I won’t spoil it for you if you don’t).

If this were a political campaign, the stock in these guys (and they are ALL guys, which certainly indicates SOMEthing about the industry, whether or not that’s intentional) would be going way up. It’s funny how people can absolve themselves of their past tendency to be ridiculous, as long as they own up to how ridiculous they are. And holy crap! Nothing is more hysterical to me than the idea of, say, Brad Pitt, Orlando Bloom, or Colin Farrell (oh man, especially Colin Farrell) whining about TiVo while dodging bullets.

That’s the premise of Tropic Thunder, by the way – the action star, the comic buffoon, the respected actor, the hip hop star turned actor, and the newbie…all lost in the hostile jungle, unsure if they’re still making a movie about ‘Nam. Anything else I tell you will ruin the magic (don’t read any other reviews before you go, dude, they seem to be 95% plot summary and give away many of the surprising details), but I will say that more than once during the film I wondered how much my beloved Zoolander might have been improved with the addition of RD,Jr. The tone of Tropic Thunder is less silly than Stiller’s previous film, the characters more believable (it’s easier to recognize figures from Hollywood than from the male modeling industry), the acting better, the script smarter, and the lack of tired old Owen Wilson a blessing.

Now go see it before you hear too much about it and lose interest. To reap the maximum benefit, try to throw some missed flights, lost hotel reservations, awkward social situations, and/or sleep deprivation into the mix. Or just see Pineapple Express directly beforehand and you should be good. In fact, I’m starting to believe that this movie has turned my luck around. Everything’s been coming up Howson since I left that theater. My flight is actually boarding,*** I’ve finally been able to track down a Diet Coke, and some cute kid near me keeps shouting “THANK YOU!” over and over again. If I weren’t tired and covered in bug bites (long story), I’d be doing the same thing. Thanks, Ben Stiller. You’ve really made my weekend, which was no small feat.

*In fact, as I write this, I’m hunched on the floor near the gate, jealously guarding the one electrical socket I could find, and there is an older, maybe intoxicated lady who just walked up to where I am sitting on the floor and is just standing here, swaying dangerously in platform flip flops while I cringe in anticipation of the crash.

**OMG! The woman is back! I just looked up for a second and saw the flip flops come to a screeching, swaying halt in front of me. Then they turned around suddenly and lurched off to a nearby chair. Maybe she wants my power outlet?? OR MY SOUL?

***Drunk lady (it’s 11am, by the way) just got on a flight to Baltimore. Ahem.

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

Thus, I have decided to indulge myself and I've outlined my scores below, in the order in which I awarded them:

Two and a half stars – (Friday afternoon, midway through the movie.) At this point in the film, you realize that they’ve only laughed once or twice, probably at the idea of a hot high school girl dating Seth Rogen, but you are still hopeful that a hilarious sequence will pop up soundtracked by that MIA song from the trailer.

One star – (Friday early evening, driving home from the movie.) The disappointment is fresh and furious, and memories of the painfully slow editing still rankle. You find yourself longing for Forgetting Sarah Marshall to come out on DVD, just to experience the kind of script that Pineapple Express failed to deliver.

Half star – (Friday late night, as your friends enthusiastically ask you how it was.) WTF IT WAS AWFUL; DO NOT SEE IT. BURN YOUR WALLET AND THROW YOUR CAR KEYS IN THE LAKE. JAMES FRANCO* IS DEAD TO ME. I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT JOKER SIGNED UP FOR A MOVIE THIS STUPID.

(no stars all weekend as it flees from your memory)

Four stars – (Monday late morning, as you chat about it with your pals, who have now dragged themselves to see it, despite your warnings.) Some jokes begin to stand out in your memory, apart from the chaff of mediocre lines that have already faded. Suddenly, the whole idea of a guy who has to go through this life-changing event with his pot dealer seems hilarious in retrospect, even though you’ve never really been around a pot dealer, but you remember your high school boyfriend’s sketchy dropout friend talking about one once.

Two stars – (Right now and officially) Pineapple Express is a glorious idea that was directed badly, and ultimately, it’s us who suffer. The acting is good, the script is decent, and the characters have the potential to be hilarious. But when there are long, awkward pauses after each and every joke, reminiscent of Baby Mama, the entire movie feels like a high school play.

Aaaand five stars – (whenever a picture like this one comes to mind):

*This is such a false statement said in the heat of the moment that I now really regret.

Rating: 2 out of 5 stars

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
(yes! FOUR stars!)

So the other night I put my brand new marriage* in jeopardy during what began as a pleasant post-honeymoon dinner with my sister and her husband. I'd masterfully steered the conversation towards movies, a skill I've acquired to mask the fact that I'm generally oblivious to most other topics, and we touched on the early summer blockbusters. We cruised past Iron Man with a universal thumbs up and enjoyed discussing why the new Indiana Jones was so utterly disappointing (it's the skull), when my husband said with confidence, "And then we saw Sex and the City, and, ugh, was it awful."

My sister, who hadn't even seen the film, immediately protested, at the same time as my brother-in-law, who hadn't even seen the film, immediately agreed. The table erupted into rapid-fire arguments, men versus women, over whether or not this high fashion movie was anything more than a shoe catalog on the screen.

Take heed, ladies. Don't even bother trying to interest a dude in the SATC phenomenon. What my male saw as gratuitous, materialistic drivel with a side of chicks hugging a lot, I saw as a wonderfully accurate portrait of female friendships and how women rally around each other like instinctive bodyguards, with a side of some entertaining fashion choices.

And I wasn't even that into the show!

In fact, the big screen epilogue to the wildly popular HBO series seemed to me to fix a lot of easy cop outs with which the series left us. Carrie's rampant vanity is less cute now that she's in her forties, and, for lack of a better way to put it, it begins to come back and bite her in the ass. Miranda comes to grips with reality, Samantha accepts her own failures, and Charlotte...well...Charlotte suffers an embarrassing incident that dirties her pedestal a little. Sure, there's handbags and shoes and shopping. It wouldn't be Sex and the City without it. But the movie exposes the "happily ever after" message of the series finale as just a temporary high point. It's comforting somehow to know that these women have realistic problems and that they still need each other just as much to get through them.

Of course, a clever script helps. Carrie narrates, as usual, with her usual arsenal of tiring puns, but unlike the half hour pieces of candy that the series provided, her voice-overs are sparse and unobtrusive. To the best of my knowledge, Carrie gets through over two hours of screen time with only one "Three hours and four martinis later" segue. And she only sits pensively at her laptop once or twice. We even see her wear the same accessories more than once, if you can believe it. This theme of reaching maturity reappears throughout, as Carrie frequently passes groups of girls reminiscent of her own lighthearted twenties. Her pals have different epiphanies regarding middle age. Miranda had no problem accepting maturity long ago, but is now having trouble tempering it with emotion. Samantha, on the other hand, has been pressured into a maturity she's not quite prepared for. And Park Avenue Charlotte, of course, is still sitting around wondering why her friends can't just get with the program.

All this coming-of-middle-age stuff aside, the real meat and potatoes of Sex and the City is still relationships between women. Desperately needing to be able to talk out your entire life in a diner (or on a couch, or over drinks, or on the phone, or in a drugstore) with your friends is something to which I think most of us can relate. And so what if the series and the film rely heavily on couture product placement?** You guys have one of those shows too, as my brother-in-law pointed out. It's called Entourage.

*In case you're wondering where I've been, and I'm 98% positive you're not.

**I'm pretty sure Jennifer Hudson's entire purpose in the film is to promote Bag, Borrow or Steal.

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).