I have a bone to pick with Jason Segel’s penis. Or maybe with Judd Apatow’s. I’m not quite sure which. Confident as I am in my heterosexuality and comfortable as I am with the human body, I didn’t give either dangling member detailed examination when the filmmakers’ went all Harvey Keitel in Forgetting Sarah Marshall and Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story, respectively. Thus, I couldn’t identify those flaccid suspects in a lineup of cinematic criminals. (By contrast, an aside: Remember when DVD players first came out and actually touted the fuzz-free pause of DVD over VHS as a reason to upgrade? How many copies of Basic Instinct do you think that advertising strategy sold?) That said, the audaciousness of those recent genitalia exhibitions is largely to blame for what until recently was my firm resistance toward watching what turns out to be the funniest movie of the year. And that has me pissed.
Truth be told, the problem isn’t with either penis per se but with the cockeyed reactions they inspired from the entertainment media, critics included. Segel’s awkward full-frontal display in Forgetting was a topic of such considerable buzz that it became the nudity equivalent of Samuel L Jackson’s one-liners in Snakes On A Plane – notorious before the film even reached theaters. Meanwhile, few writers could discuss Segel’s Full Monty without also referencing Apatow’s twig-and-berries cameo in Walk Hard late last year. This was to some degree understandable: Apatow produced both films and had recently vowed to include a penis shot in all his future movies. Yet on the whole this penispalooza turned out to be misleading. In the rush to demonstrate Apatow’s influence, many critics spent so much time focusing on the similarities between Forgetting and other Apatow-touched films that they failed to note the significant differences – differences that allow Forgetting to succeed.
I imagine this was meant to be complimentary; for better or worse, due to genius or lack of competition, Apatow is comedy’s current golden boy. The 40-Year-Old Virgin and Knocked Up, which he wrote and directed, were both critical and box-office triumphs, as was Superbad, which Apatow produced. Not to mention that, yes, Segel is from the Apatow troupe (like Superbad co-writer Seth Rogan). And, yes, Forgetting, like those other films, is about a less-than-Clooneyesque-looking guy stuck in some form of arrested development who, at one point or another, tries to land himself an attractive woman. All true. But …
1) Segel’s Peter Bretter isn’t a loser. Sure, he likes to laze around his apartment in sweatpants eating Froot Loops from a large mixing bowl. Sure, his Gandalf impression indicates that he enjoyed Lord Of The Rings. Yes, as already mentioned, he doesn’t look like a candidate for People Magazine’s annual “most beautiful” list. And he cries like a girl when his heart is broken after a 5-year relationship ends in betrayal. And he isn’t smooth with the ladies. And he likes puppets. But this is the worst we can say about him. At the same time, Peter has a paying Hollywood job, plays an instrument, aspires to better things (though, yes, admittedly “better things” does include vampire puppets), is secure with his girlfriend’s public career and is willing to wear (without complaint) the goofy hats or man-purses that his girlfriend gives him as gifts.
Compare that to Steve Carell’s titular character in Virgin. Andy is sweet and well-meaning, which is why the film is endearing and why Catherine Keener’s Trish sees something in him from the very start. But Andy’s house is filled with action figures, and he’s so clueless about the opposite sex that he imagines that a breast feels like a “bag of sand.” Then there’s Rogan’s Ben from Knocked Up. Here’s a guy who prefers the company of his pink eye-infected, knuckle-dragging friends to spending time with the super-hot, super-understanding Alison (Katherine Heigl). Here’s a guy who has no job whatsoever, except to catalog nudity in movies for a planned subscription website, which means he’s both slacking and stupid: he’d rather watch naked women on TV than get frisky with the flesh-and-blood babe next to him. Andy may be a diamond in the rough, but Ben is an inconsiderate slob. I have no explanation as to why Alison, or any living creature advanced enough to be able to make tools, would want to spend time with him, which is precisely why Knocked Up doesn’t work. In relation to these Apatow creations certainly, if not also society as a whole, Peter is a catch.
2) Segel’s film is better written. Forgetting may not win any screenplay awards, and it isn’t a comedy classic to be revered by future generations, but it’s leaner and more consistent than Apatow’s latest screenplays. Virgin on the page really isn’t all that funny (save the brilliant joke about David Caruso in Jade). Instead, the film is carried by Carell’s performance, highlighted by the wordless scene in which Andy stares with astonishment at the model of a woman’s reproductive organs. Knocked Up, meanwhile, has some amusing jokes about marriage, as seen through the characters played by Leslie Mann and Paul Rudd, but otherwise it’s little more than crude gross-out humor.
As far as I’m concerned, the way to evaluate a comedy is not by its best joke but by its worst ones, and with Apatow’s films it’s hard to tell one from the other. In Virgin, for example, there’s a lengthy and unnecessary “You know how I know you’re gay?” debate between Rogan’s Cal and Rudd’s David. Apatow must think it’s hilarious for all the attention he gives it, and yet each barb sounds like the unpolished material of an opening-act comedian. Take this one: “You know how I know you’re gay? You have a rainbow bumper sticker on your car that says, ‘I love it when balls are in my face.’” Quality stuff, eh? Perhaps not as witty as this observation from Knocked Up: “You look like Babe Ruth’s gay brother: Gabe Ruth.” Priceless, no? I’m not sure about you, but I like my comedies to tell better jokes than your average wasted frat boy. And don’t even get me started on Knocked Up’s tripping-on-mushrooms Vegas episode – a spectacularly stupid scene that scrapes the bottom of the comedy barrel in a pathetic attempt for cheap laughs.
By contrast, Forgetting’s worst joke is actually Peter’s much-discussed bit of full-frontal nudity at the start of the film. True, the male anatomy is a joke from God that never stops being funny, but in the end it’s just a lazy sight gag that offers nothing more than shock-value snickers (which explains why the laughter is tempered when the audience knows what to expect). On the other hand, Forgetting’s best joke isn’t a one-liner at all. It’s a character: Russell Brand’s scene-stealing Aldous Snow, the self-absorbed, sex-obsessed British rocker who screws Peter’s girl out from under him. Aldous doesn’t say funny things so much as he is a funny persona, and so in this respect Forgetting follows the format of Superbad (written by Rogan and Evan Goldberg): it creates entertaining and individualistic personalities to enjoy, rather than distributing mediocre one-liners at random amongst undeveloped joke-spewing drones (all of Andy’s friends in Virgin; any male character in Knocked Up).
Another supporting character of note is Peter’s love interest, Rachel, played with spunk and poise by Mila Kunis. Whereas Knocked Up never satisfactorily explains how Alison tolerates Ben’s presence, Peter’s relationship with Rachel makes sense. Is she more attractive than him? Absolutely. But Peter is hardly ugly, and on top of that he has experience dating beautiful women. More importantly, though, Peter is an open book to Rachel, who seems attracted to his emotional vulnerability. Kunis plays Rachel like the kind of girl who has heard all the polished lines before and enjoys discovering sincerity, even in an imperfect package. Should Peter count himself as lucky to land Rachel? Sure. But the reverse is true too, which is more than you can say for Ben and Alison.
Having said all of this, don’t get me wrong: Forgetting Sarah Marshall is far from perfect, and some of its best jokes are crass and plain silly. Still, at least it’s memorable for all the right reasons, and Segel’s penis isn’t one of them – not that you’d get that impression from all the press it inspired. Do I wish for a day when cinema is so packed with penises that we don’t notice them anymore? Well, no. I can’t say I’d go that far. But it would be nice if we could all look beyond the penises when they present themselves. Maybe that would convince shock-dependent writers like Apatow to try a little harder. Maybe that would remind Segel that he’s at his best writing characters who bare their imperfect emotions, not their imperfect bodies. Maybe that would ensure that worthy comedies aren’t reduced by critics to a single absurdity. Forgetting turned out to offer a much more impressive package than I’d been led to believe. I’m glad I saw it.
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