3.5 stars. Rated R, for strong sexual content, profanity, nudity and drug use
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 7.17.15
This film is impressively
schizophrenic.
On the one hand, it’s as
jaw-droppingly vulgar and tasteless as the average Melissa McCarthy fiasco ...
which is to say, pretty much what one should expect from something directed and
produced by Judd Apatow (The 40-Year Old Virgin, This Is 40, Bridesmaids).
Then again, some of the crude
bits are wincingly hilarious.
On the third hand, the seemingly
relentless profanity and potty-mouthed sexuality are intercut with moments of
tenderness that are touching enough to prompt tears ... as was the case with
numerous patrons at Tuesday evening’s preview screening.
In the grand Hollywood tradition,
then, you’ll laugh, you’ll cry and you’ll cringe ... although I rather doubt Trainwreck will change your life.
But it certainly does prove that
Amy Schumer has arrived. And how.
Actually, she’s already been
around for a little while, as fans of her TV series Inside Amy Schumer are
well aware. Her shtick gets its momentum from the juxtaposition between her
fresh-faced, doe-eyed, girl-next-door (seeming) innocence, and the
breathtakingly blunt and appalling stuff that emerges from her mouth. The goal
is shock value, with (she undoubtedly hopes) at least a few belly-laughs along
the way.
Trainwreck may be helmed by
Apatow, but the script comes solely from Schumer. It’s maladroit, to say the
least, and — at 125 minutes — needlessly bloated and self-indulgent. And yet
her storyline also possesses (at times) a sparkling sweetness that perfectly
suits the gal-desperately-needing-redemption character she has written for
herself.
Which is why this film resonates more
than McCarthy’s big-screen vehicles, where it’s impossible to engage
emotionally with any of the one-dimensional burlesques populating the screen.
Schumer still has a lot to learn, when it comes to translating her stand-up
routines to the demands of a two-hour narrative, but her big-screen writing
debut here is, nonetheless, better than many.
She stars as Amy (not much
imagination there), one of the staff writers at New York’s S’Nuff magazine, a
slick, deliberately ghastly publication that exists solely to mortify,
humiliate and otherwise offend anybody with mainstream sensibilities. Her editor,
Dianna, is a superficial bee-yatch of astonishing heartlessness: a role
delivered with spectacular cruelty by Tilda Swinton.
Off the job, Amy is an
unapologetic alcoholic and aggressively promiscuous, engaging in one-night
stands with guys who never get to stay until morning. She acquired these
tendencies from her rapscallion of a father, Gordon (Colin Quinn), who catted
around shamelessly earlier in life, rarely had a kind word for anybody, and now
has succumbed to ill health and become an embittered old man, recently placed
in a managed care facility.
Which leaves Amy and younger
sister Kim (Brie Larson, sensational as the “normal” sibling) to go through all
his stuff, en route to cleaning out and selling his house. They playfully
squabble and snipe during this process, not entirely comfortable in each
other’s presence, and yet the sister dynamic is ferociously real, their
dialogue absolutely authentic: the film’s first indication that — Schumer’s
earthy tendencies aside — genuine truth lurks in its corners.
You’ll detect the same emotional
intensity during Amy’s interactions with her father. Quinn makes him a truly
unpleasant old crank, with little in the way of redeeming qualities: obviously
more comfortable pushing people away, even when they’re his own daughters. And
yet he’s Amy’s dad, and she adores him. Can’t help herself.
That’s the way it works.
Amy’s newest assignment involves
interviewing successful sports doctor Aaron Conners (Bill Hader), a task to
which she’s wholly unsuited, as she knows nothing about sports and disdains
anybody shallow enough to follow this team or that. (Naturally, that’s why
Dianna chooses Amy for the job.)
Amy’s initial meeting with Aaron
is a masterpiece of verbal feinting, the latter immediately wise to her pathetic
efforts to conceal her ignorance; he’s also unruffled by her wholly
inappropriate efforts at humor. Hader is simply perfect opposite Schumer, his
raised eyebrows, mocking half-smile and skepticism not quite condescending, but
instead playfully tolerant: I see right through you, my dear, but that’s all
right. Because you’re cute.
And that’s the thing: Aaron does
find Amy cute. Which completely throws her. This is a creature outside her
experience: a pleasant guy who seems — can it be? — genuinely nice.
They have a first date. Of sorts.
Then, when Aaron calls Amy and suggests a second, her S’Nuff colleague and best
friend Nikki (Vanessa Bayer), worried that this guy must be a stalker, suggests
calling the police.
And so it goes like that, in fits
and starts. Some quips, gags and set-pieces work; many others, not so much. I’m
not sure that Schumer’s occasional off-camera narration is useful or even
necessary; it just sorta is, like much of the film. There’s a certain sense
that she and Apatow tried all sorts of stuff and retained a lot that probably
should have been left on the cutting-room floor. Which is to say, the team of
three (!) editors — William Kerr, Peck Prior and Paul Zucker — likely got paid
for very little work.
And yet ... and yet ... some of
that “stuff” is wonderful.
As befits his profession, Aaron
hangs out with numerous sports stars, notably Amar’e Stoudemire and — most
particularly — LeBron James. The latter is Aaron’s best friend and unofficial
romantic advisor, with a deadpan delivery to die for. (LeBron James adept at
comedy? Who knew?) One of their “chats” takes place during an amiable
one-on-one basketball scuffle destined to become a YouTube sensation: a sequence
choreographed for maximum mismatched hilarity.
As is customary in an Apatow
film, the primary players are surrounded by overly embroidered hangers-on: some
charming or amusing during their brief appearances, others falling flatter than
the proverbial lead balloon. Dave Attell has a great running bit as Noam, the
wisecracking homeless guy forever standing on the sidewalk outside Amy’s
apartment; he also gets one of the film’s funniest lines, toward the end.
Ezra Miller is mildly amusing as
a naïve and intrusive intern at S’Nuff: a part with an unexpected payoff. Mike
Birbiglia is unexpectedly ordinary as Tom, Kim’s patiently cheerful — but
rather boring — husband; and Evan Brinkman is oddly endearing as Tom’s
mildly weird adolescent son, Allister.
And, goodness, 99-year-old Norman
Lloyd — veteran of TV’s St. Elsewhere and numerous Hitchcock films, among
many, many other things — pops up as a chatty resident at Gordon’s
assisted-living facility.
On the other hand, Bayer’s Nikki
isn’t nearly as funny as everybody seems to think, and WWE superstar John
Cena’s presence as Steven, Amy’s initial, sorta-kinda boyfriend is a waste of
space. The “gag” is that Steven doesn’t know that Amy is a serial cheater, and
Cena is present mostly to display his impressively sculpted bare bod. But the
total absence of chemistry between Schumer and Cena — which I’m sure is
deliberate — feels like all concerned are just killing time before the real
movie starts.
Another running gag finds Daniel
Radcliffe and Marisa Tomei starring in a pretentious B&W arthouse flick
called The Dogwalker. The occasional scenes from this droll travesty,
sprinkled throughout the rest of the action, are mercifully brief and therefore
just long enough to be mischievously funny.
At the end of the day, though,
I’m not sure this film will find an audience. Arrested adolescents drawn by
Apatow’s reputation for gross-out humor will be bored by the kinder, gentler
aspects of Schumer’s script, whereas mild-mannered, mainstream viewers will
never make it past the first 10 minutes, likely fleeing in a panic from the
theater.
On the other hand, perhaps I
worry too much. Crudeness notwithstanding, we became heavily invested in nerdy
Steve Carell’s plight, in The 40-Year-Old Virgin. And when one considers that
the whole point of a redemption story is the pleasure derived from watching a
flawed character better herself ... well, this story’s Amy couldn’t be more
flawed, which makes the finale pretty darn satisfying.
Besides which, she saves the best
for last: That concluding scene is a knock-out. And a great way to help us
overlook the flaws, stumbles and excesses that precede it.
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