Knocked Up: Thoughts

Much has been overstated about the hilarity of Judd Apatow’s new comedy Knocked Up, a movie about slacker-Jew Ben Stone’s (Seth Rogen) lucky (and fertile) encounter with a woman, Alison Scott (Katherine Heigl), who is well out of his league. This isn’t to say that there isn’t any funny in this movie, there is (with lines like: “You look like Robin Williams’ knuckles”, and a solid performance by super wingman Paul Rudd, you can make lots of funny), or that it isn’t a good film (probably the best so far this summer), but to anoint Knocked Up as the “comedy of the year” seems premature since Apatow’s (and Rogen’s) other film Superbad has yet to hit theaters (“I am, McLovin.”). My money’s on Arrested Development’s Michael Cera, who I believe has the superbadpower to mint comedy gold. Sure, funny exists in manageable helpings in Knocked up, but so does a fair amount of seat squirming seriousness. Apatow comes out swinging, establishing right off the bat that Ben (Rogan) is living the life: staging American Gladiator-type bouts with his stoner friends and chilling in a marijuana filled gas mask; while Alison (Heigl), recently promoted and working at E!, is feeling the pressure from her boss (Alan Tudyk) and his assistant (the hilarious Kristen Wiig, who perfects a new kind of aggressive-passive-aggressiveness) to remain thin (but busty!). We’re also introduced to Alison’s control-freak sister Debbie (Leslie Mann, Apatow’s wife) and her dislocated husband/dutiful father Pete (Paul Rudd—again, more on him later), who are themselves a couple that married due to an unplanned pregnancy (hey, it’s Hollywood!). In his two comedies, Apatow has chosen to abandon the age old comedic tactic of casting William Atherton as Alison’s narcissistic boss who waits to catch her in full pregnancy (something she tries to hide all film), or Rob Lowe as the “perfect” gentlemanly match (only secretly narcissistic) for Alison to be Ben’s main competition. Instead Apatow relies on life to be the instrument of tension: When will Alison realize she’s better than Ben? Will Ben grow up, and will he ever be good enough for Alison? It may be a bit King of Queens of Apatow to think someone of Alison’s beauty (and who is so integrated into Hollywood) would ever give a second thought to a lifetime of bongs and celebrity nudity (Ben and his buddies métier), but pregnancy and the idea of raising children have long been the foundation for such things (as well as the development of the infamous shotgun, later used to hunt fowl). What Apatow is going for, is a film about the way children (more importantly, the responsibility they bring with them) can prolong our willingness to entertain bad ideas or bad relationships, and how we, as adults, can poison children with our own insecurities: a tension brought to the surface by Debbie and Pete. If indeed there is a “villain” to be found in this movie (the person who threatens the happy ending) it is Debbie, a woman so controlling (get it!) she drives her husband to an underground fantasy baseball league: a sin so mighty in sitcomness that Pete finds himself banned from the house for, of all things, not having an affair, something Debbie feels is less “mean”. Poor Pete. Debbie is a terror of a woman (shades of Tea Leoni in Spanglish, only, thank God, more funny); she berates her husband, calling him names even as he displays obvious affection and responsibility towards their two kids—who, by the way, are incredibly talented actors (Apatow and Mann’s real-life offspring), their tiny characters fascinated with murder and blood (disturbing thoughts for a child to pick up, and our first clue that children are more attuned, if not completly understanding of parental tensions. Debbie even uses her class status (wealthy, bitchy, white-woman) to berate and humiliate a (working class, black) bouncer who has the good sense to not allow her (or her 8 month pregnant sister) into a club, only feeling bad about it when the bouncer appeals to her liberal guilt by explaining he’s only allowed to let 5 percent blacks into the club. Debbie is a train wreck, insecure, malicious, vindictive, judgmental, Alison’s sister/role model--is it any wonder Alison has second thoughts about marrying shlubby Ben? All of this is a good thing however, since it forces Ben out of the celebrity porn business and into the cubicles the rest of adult America live our lives in (which doesn’t really answer Alison’s concerns in any particular way, but gosh it’s cute he tried so hard). See, serious stuff. Thankfully, Ben’s cabal of stoner buddies are always good for a laugh, like when they discuss the origin of pink-eye (your elementary school memories will never be the same). And, thank the God’s for Paul Rudd, the man who has introduced us to Sex Panther cologne, porn stashes, and who, in Knocked Up, makes a room full of chairs hilarious. Watching Rudd’s Pete, in a Vegas motel room with Ben, selling the audience on his claim that his marriage problems are a result of his inability to accept all of his wife’s love (the typical cliché, male emotional immaturity, not that she’s a ball-breaking shrew), while at the same time trying to eat his hand (“It taste like a rainbow!”). I couldn’t help but think of Tom Hanks, trapped in a rug wedged in a hole in The Money Pit, and wonder why this guy hasn’t become a bigger star yet. Perhaps it’s because (as my girlfriend said) he’s too good looking for the comedies he’s in, and lacks that inherent goofiness and oddball air that seems to ooze from the pours of actors like Rogen or Will Ferrell. He’s the good looking dork. In fact, he’s a better looking than Tom Hanks. Somebody get this guy a volleyball and a box of chocolates.