When ‘I Think You Should Leave’ Met Judd Apatow

Meet Craig Waterman, the world’s most socially awkward suburbanite. The fact that he’s played by Tim Robinson — co-creator of the brilliant sketch show-slash-meme-generator I Think You Should Leave — tells you everything you need to know from the jump. Craig’s wife Tami (Kate Mara), a cancer survivor clearly still in love with her firefighter ex-boyfriend, is perpetually embarrassed by him. Though to be fair, her husband has a knack for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Talking to her support group, Tami confesses her fear that she’ll never experience sexual release again in her post-remission state. When Craig is asked how he’s doing, he assures the assembled that, “I’m orgasming fine!” Full disclosure: This is only the seventh most cringeworthy thing you’ll hear him say over the course of the next 100 minutes.

His son (Jack Dylan Grazer) thinks he’s a dweeb. The guys at his corporate job, which involves finding new ways to get people addicted to apps (“We prefer the term ‘habit-forming’”), barely tolerate him. Craig is the poster boy for a certain kind of middle-aged male. You definitely know this guy. You’ve seen him buying two-for-one beige khakis at the mall, getting way too excited over weeknight specials at Chili’s, or rocking out way too hard at a Third Eye Blind show.

But hey, whatever, Craig isn’t moping his way through life. The gentleman wears his sense of existential defeat like an off-the-rack suit. He’s orgasming fine! Then a package meant for their new neighbor arrives at Craig’s doorstep. He walks it over. And that’s when Craig meets Austin. It becomes apparent within a few seconds that this dude is, like, awesome. He’s a weatherman at the local news station. He rocks a truly astounding Burt Reynolds mustache. He collects prehistoric tools, forages for mushrooms, and has his own catchphrase (“Stay curious, Craig Waterman”). He’s in a band! Called Mayor Nichols Sucks! The name of which directly trolls the town’s mayor, because that’s so fucking hardcore! Austin looks and acts like a milder version of the Paul Rudd character in Anchorman, i.e. the one who was man enough to rock Sex Panther cologne. Which is probably why the powers that be cast Rudd in the part. That and star power, sure, but go with us here.

We’re barely into Act One, and already, Friendship is setting you up for a cross-comic dynamic: Imagine I Love You Man as filtered through I Think You Should Leave, and that’s the bullseye that writer-director Andrew DeYoung’s feature debut is aiming for. And despite the fact that it’s Rudd’s character who starts actively courting a bromance — Robinson’s every-schlub isn’t looking for mid-life friendship, but he’s not not looking for it, either — it’s the ITYSL sensibility that’s the guiding light here. DeYoung has said he’d crafted his script with Robinson in mind, though you’d have thought that the star and his sketch program’s writing staff personally penned most of the scenes themselves. Part of what makes Robinson’s Netflix show so consistently hilarious is the way his characters double down on the wrong reaction, turn minor fixations into all-consuming obsessions, escalate their anger to overthrow a situation’s over-the-top absurdity. It’s also got the kind of 21st century cringe-comedy voice that forges die-hard fans or disbelievers. You either find the idea of a session musician hijacking a country ballad with a breakdown of the undead’s personal economy (“The bones are their money/In our world, bones equal dol-lars!”) totally side-splitting, or you stare confusedly at those who do.

Friendship, at its best, nails that signature vein of humor to a T — it’s almost like a lost I Think You Should Leave sketch extended to feature length. That’s good news for those who need a fix in between seasons. It’s also a problem overall. There’s enough glorious weirdness threaded throughout this peanut butter-meets-chocolate combination of Judd Apatow-type setups and the kind of comedy that results in Robinson berating himself with a bar of soap in his mouth to justify a lot. A handful of random WTF moments are capable of inducing zero-to-full-giggle-fit reactions; an impromptu rendition of Ghost Town DJs’ hit “My Boo” by Austin’s sensitive-guy wolf pack is worth it just to hear Rudd croon, “If your game is on, give me a call, boo.” The Adult Swim vibe is strong with this one.

But the whole of Friendship isn’t as attractive as the sum of its disparate parts, and you wonder if a more concise, focused version of this look at the self-consciousness of dudes trying desperately to bond wouldn’t have hit better. There are a half dozen or so oddball non sequiturs — that self-inflicted soap-in-mouth punishment, a coffee cup filled perilously to the brim, the world’s most horribly banal psychedelic vision quest, rage over spoilers about “the new Marvel that’s supposed to be nuts!” — that would have been instant classics as stand-alone set pieces on Robinson’s show. Here, they’re just highlights in between long stretches of uncomfortable dead air. It’s a movie pre-designed to be turned into a supercut.

From Rolling Stone US.