15 Layers of Irony

“I’m a guy who can’t function well in life but can in art.” – Harry Block, Deconstructing Harry

I could fill this blog post with quotes from Woody Allen films that relate to my life. I could talk about the Woody Allen characters with whom I most overidentify, which is all of them. Nothing I write will seem adequate, because it’s impossible to quantify the influence Allen has had on my life—as a writer, as a neurotic, as a Jew.

Woody Allen didn’t make me the person I am, but he encouraged me (however indirectly) to express aspects of myself I wasn’t sure were worth expressing. He helped me find the humor in self-hatred: you can take a mostly useless persecution complex and find an outlet for it. There is something inherently funny about social anxiety, and—thanks to the magic of the internet—you don’t even have to leave your room to express it.

Sometimes I think of writing as therapy, but more often, it’s my attempt to make the best of a bad situation. I will continue to mature into a functional member of society, but I know I’m always going to be at least a little bit fucked-up. I’m fine with that: I couldn’t handle the dullness of being completely well-adjusted. And while I don’t exactly want to model my life after Woody Allen’s, when has he ever been normal? He grows as a writer and a director, but his persona remains the same.

There’s no cure for Judaism. And sure, it goes beyond that, but a culture of guilt and a history of bitter persecution will do a number on a young person’s psyche. Religion aside, being a nebbish is, in some ways, a lifetime condition. In high school, that freaked me out: I will never be the cool, collected, sexy Aryan I once longed to be. (Oh my God, what if I dyed my hair platinum blonde?) The trick is to own the glasses and the Jewfro and the overwhelming sense of self-doubt. Some people find neurosis sexy. If you don’t believe me, watch any number of Woody Allen films.

It’s worth mentioning that I’m writing this on Allen’s 76th birthday, and I’ve managed to make it almost entirely about me. That seems fitting, though, right? I am a self-obsessed, navel-gazing narcissist, as sure of my own superiority as I am of everyone else’s poor opinion of me. I didn’t learn that from Allen, but I learned how to articulate it when I first watched Annie Hall as an adult.

The other important joke, for me, is one that’s usually attributed to Groucho Marx, but I think it appears originally in Freud’s ‘Wit and Its Relation to the Unconscious,’ and it goes like this—I’m paraphrasing—um, ‘I would never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member.’

That paradox of being both above and beneath it all defines most everything I do. And comparing myself to Woody Allen—feeling that I am both worthy of the comparison and also completely unable to achieve his greatness—is certainly a reflection of that.

My two favorite Woody Allen movies are the ones I’ve quoted above, Deconstructing Harry and Annie Hall, but I’m fond of what I believe to be the first of his films I saw in the theater, Everyone Says I Love You. While it’s not commonly regarded as one of his best, I still love it—for the cast, for the music, for the quintessential Woody Allen-ness that was missing from my life before I discovered him. I had just turned 10 when my parents took me to see Everyone Says I Love You, and as much as I didn’t understand, there was something in the character of Joe for me to grasp on to. I got him in a way I’d never gotten a leading man before. He got me.

I’ll leave you with this exchange between Allen’s Joe and his ex-wife Steffi, played by Goldie Hawn.

Steffi: You always pick the wrong women.
Joe: Hey, I picked you.
Steffi: Yeah, I know. We got divorced.
Joe: ‘Cause you were impossible to live with.
Steffi: “I was impossible to live with,” I love this. You couldn’t figure out whether you wanted to be a psychoanalyst or a writer!
Joe: So I compromised—I became a writer and a patient.

I’m doing my best to excel at both. Thanks, Woody. Happy birthday. Don’t ever stop making movies.

I talk about comedy a lot, and I write jokes on Twitter, so you might assume comedy is my favorite film genre. You’d be totally wrong. See what happens when you make assumptions? I’m actually a huge horror fan—not that horror and comedy are mutually exclusive. And since I’ve already made a post telling you what comedies you should watch, I figured I might as well do something similar for horror. While I have a great appreciation for the classics (favorites: A Nightmare on Elm Street, Halloween, Night of the Living Dead, Rosemary’s Baby), I wanted to focus on films made in the 21st Century. (Look, I had to narrow it down somehow.)

So here are seven modern horror films I think you should watch, in no particular order.

1. Jennifer’s Body (2009). Written by Diablo Cody, directed by Karyn Kusama. I lied. This one’s first because it is my favorite modern horror film. It’s also one of the most unfairly maligned movies in recent memory. This is a sharp, witty, and—best of all—female-centric horror movie. It’s certainly not the scariest on the list, but it appeals to my sensibilities perfectly. Horror can be funny without being silly; it can offer social commentary without hitting you over the head. And why all the Megan Fox hate? This role is perfect for her. Bonus points for the queer undertones, which are overt long before the girl-on-girl action.
You might also like: Ginger Snaps (2000). Another great blend of horror and comedy, with strong female characters and high school metaphors.

2. Hostel: Part II (2007). Written and directed by Eli Roth. I once got in an argument with a friend over this movie. She said she could never watch it as a feminist and a human rights activist—I guess the implication being that I hate women and love torture. Which, uh, no. In many ways, this film is a play on the rape-revenge genre (I Spit On Your Grave, The Last House on the Left), so, yes, you see women suffer. But the women are your point of identification, and there is great satisfaction in the revenge. If you’re being tortured in the first half of the film, you’re also—spoiler alert—castrating your captor in the second.
You might also like: The Devil’s Rejects (2005). Lots of torture, but Rob Zombie’s film is interesting for the way you’re forced to identify with the torturers.

3. À l’intérieur (Inside) (2007). Written by Alexandre Bustillo, directed by Alexandre Bustillo and Julien Maury. Of all the movies on the list, this one was the hardest for me to sit through. It is completely brutal, a product of a movement Artforum’s James Quandt dubbed “New French Extremism.” Thematically, the story of a pregnant woman terrorized by a woman trying to steal her unborn child is horrifying. That aside, the violence is shocking and relentless. It’s also completely necessary to the film. Even if you have to watch this movie through your fingers, you have to watch it.
You might also like: Trouble Every Day (2001). Another New French Extremism movie with Beatrice Dalle, who is honestly just really scary.

4. Frozen (2010). Written and directed by Adam Green. You know what’s scary? A seemingly invincible urban legend serial killer. (Green’s Hatchet and Hatchet II.) You know what’s scarier? Getting stuck on a fucking ski lift. Frozen tells a very simple story: three friends are left hanging on their way up a snowy mountain. They have to survive frostbite, hunger, and wolves—things most of us don’t have to contend with, but that are grounded in reality. Frozen does a great job making the open air feel like a confined space—these three are outdoors, but they have nowhere to go. That sense of claustrophobia is palpable throughout.
You might also like: Buried (2010). Perhaps more thriller than horror, Buried is one of the best claustrophobic film I have seen.

5. The House of the Devil (2009). Written and directed by Ti West. This is a bit of a strange pick—not because it isn’t great, but because the film takes place in the ’80s and is very much indebted to the decade. Nevertheless, it is a modern horror film that is remarkable for the way it avoids and subverts so many modern horror conventions. I’m also a big fan of movies that traffic in subtlety, only to arrive at an over-the-top conclusion. The huge reveals aren’t what makes it scary—that’s the suspense. But the switch from creeping dread to “holy shit” is a fantastic mindfuck. You thought you knew what was going on, but you had no idea.
You might also like: The Last Exorcism (2010). Without giving too much away, this movie’s structure shares a few notable features with The House of the Devil.

6. Splice (2009). Written and directed by Vincenzo Natali. Yes, really. Here’s yet another movie I think most critics just didn’t get. It does have its share of ridiculous moments, though I’d argue all are intentional. In some ways this sci-fi horror film could also be called a dark comedy, but that doesn’t make it any less disturbing. There are plenty of movies about science gone wrong—don’t mess with mother nature, and all that—but Splice also includes incest, rape, and pedophilia. These aren’t intended to shock, but rather to unnerve the audience, and it is indeed a movie to squirm through.
You might also like: The Fly (1986). OK, it’s not a post-2000 movie, but it’s a classic, and you should watch it immediately.

7. The Hills Have Eyes (2006). Written and directed by Alexandre Aja. Let’s get this out of the way first—I am a huge fan of Wes Craven’s 1977 original. But Aja’s remake of The Hills Have Eyes is one of the few recent horror reboots that gets it right. The film follows the original pretty closely, until a certain point at which it goes off-the-walls crazy. In my mind, a good remake should honor its source material, but also expand on it. Not to mention the fact that Aja, a New French Extremism director, has a fantastic style. I loved about half of Haute tension, but he lost me with the awkwardly homophobic twist.
You might also like: The Last House on the Left (2009). While it’s not perfect, it also does some interesting things with Wes Craven’s original. Plus, Aaron Paul!

The concept of time travel makes me severely uncomfortable. If we’ve ever talked about time travel, you know this. All the paradoxes freak my shit out, to the extent that I can’t handle most books, movies, and TV shows about it. My reaction is akin to the way some people feel watching awkward British humor. You understand that it’s entertaining, but you also feel like your bones are leading a revolt against your skin. And yet, I loved Midnight in Paris more than any Woody Allen movie since 2005′s Match Point. Time travel! Who knew?

I guess I have more of an appreciation for time travel when it’s explored in a less sci-fi context. Which is not to denigrate the genre at all—hello, I write for io9—but to suggest that while the technical aspects of time travel unnerve me, the emotional repercussions are fascinating. Judge me if you must: I really enjoyed The Time Traveler’s Wife. (The book, that is—I eye-rolled my way through the film adaptation.) And what I love about the time travel in Midnight in Paris is that it proves a point which I find both honest and profoundly upsetting: we are never, ever satisfied by the times we live in.

Allen is not exactly reinventing the wheel here. In the film, pretentious blowhard Paul (Michael Sheen) talks about the “Golden Age” fallacy: “everything was better in the past.” I’ve never felt that way exactly. Sure, I’ve thought, “Gee, wouldn’t it be swell to live in the ’50s” after watching too many hours of I Love Lucy under the influence of marijuana. But even then, the more rational part of my brain counters with, “Gay Jews in the 1950s weren’t commonly regarded as keen.” For me, it’s not so much a belief that things were better in the past, but that life was less complicated. There were simpler pleasures. If you could just ignore all that nasty social injustice, wouldn’t it be nice to cruise in my T-Bird to the drive-in? (Oh, who am I kidding? I’d totally have an Edsel.)

Naturally, I relate to the character of Gil, because—despite being played by Owen Wilson—he’s the stand-in for Woody Allen. He is Midnight in Paris‘ neurotic writer, a man stuck in the past because he’s so disillusioned by his present. Gil travels back to Paris in the 1920s, palling around with great minds like Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Vincent Van Gogh, and Gertrude Stein. I don’t want to give away too much of the plot, because you should clearly see this movie, but it’s safe to say fascination with the past is a persistent phenomenon. (Though, in 50 years, will people look back on the Bush years with nostalgia? I’m sure the planet will be dead by then, but theoretically.) All you can do is make the best of the time you have, and learn to live with what you’re given.

Knowing that doesn’t really make it any easier, does it? Even as I took in the moral Midnight in Paris offered, I still longed to be in 1920s Paris. Who wouldn’t want to get smashed with Zelda Fitzgerald and sing along with Cole Porter? I don’t like drinking or singing in public, and I would eagerly do both of those things! I think part of what’s so wonderful about this film is that it shows the “golden age” fallacy for what it is—and then proceeds to offer us a delightful bit of escapist fantasy, anyway. Whether or not we decide that Gil would be better off in the present, we relish those moments in the past.

Because time travel isn’t real (THANK GOD), entertainment about the past is the next best thing. We watch period pieces in part so we can experience another time, and then safely return to our own when they’re over. But Midnight in Paris is unique in the way it shows us exactly what forces are at work. The film explains why we long for the past, and more damningly, why we’re wrong to, even as it’s giving us a non-chronological fairy tale. Luckily, we don’t have any choice in the matter. We can sit down and be grateful for a journey back to the Paris of before, and then acknowledge that, yes, maybe it is good to live in the now. If I were presented with the option of living in the past, I know what my rational response would be. But the heart wants what it wants, and this heart wants to drink whiskey with William Faulkner.

I haven’t seen Bad Teacher yet. “Yet” implies that I’m going to, but that’s still up in the air. I really have no interest in the movie, unless someone manages to talk me into a free screening. I probably wouldn’t review it—I can feel the bias bubbling up in me already—but I could at least find out if my moral indignation is valid.

What is it about Bad Teacher that bugs me? A lot, really. I guess I don’t find our ridiculously flawed educational system to be all that funny. I don’t want to watch Cameron Diaz shit all over an undervalued and underpaid profession. And yeah, the fat kid in me doesn’t need to see my people get ridiculed while playing dodgeball in P.E. class. I lived that already, thanks. Bad Teacher is just in poor taste.

And still I say, so what? I’m not easily offended by anything, especially when it’s done in the name of comedy. No topics are really off limits, as long as they’re funny. So, yes, while I’m especially sensitive to misogyny and homophobia, I have laughed at jokes about women and gay men. People are ridiculous as a whole—if we can’t find something funny to say about our differences, we’re just going to feel super awkward all the time. (As opposed to most of the time, I guess.) I do impose certain limits on myself: I don’t make jokes about rape, for example, because a) I find most of them to be pretty weak, and b) I don’t think I’m a talented enough humorist to pull it off without just being an asshole.

Which means there’s something in particular about Bad Teacher that turns me off. I’ve been sitting here trying to come up with a reasonable explanation, and so far all I’ve got is this: it’s a mainstream Hollywood comedy. Am I being fair? Not really. But the truth is, I would be a lot more open to this film if it were a dark indie flick. At the end of the day, I don’t trust Cameron Diaz, Jason Segel, and Justin Timberlake to star in a true satire, which is what Bad Teacher would need to be to work for me. If the trailers are any indication, this movie is broad—like, really broad—which means more jokes about teachers saying naughty words and less intelligent commentary on a fucked-up institution.

It’s a real shame that I don’t trust a major studio comedy to be edgy without pissing me off, but they haven’t exactly given me a lot to work with. I just assume that the jokes about teachers (and women and queer people) won’t be funny—they’ll offend me not because of their existence, but because they’ve found nothing new to say. Most of these movies find humor in the same stereotypes; after all, that’s what makes the majority of the country laugh. So when I see the trailer for Bad Teacher and sit there all frowny-faced, it’s partly because I think there could be a good comedy somewhere in there. Just because the concept is contentious doesn’t mean it wouldn’t work in more deft hands.

Again, I know it’s not fair to pre-judge. As a movie critic, I should try to put aside my expectations and give even the shittiest-looking films a fair chance. Besides, I could be way off: maybe Bad Teacher is the best comedy of the year. (JK, obviously Bridesmaids.) But while I’d like to believe a big Hollywood comedy can be good, smart, and subversive, I highly doubt Bad Teacher is going to be that movie. Then again, I’m the guy who hated The Hangover—who cares what I think?

Don’t be a dick—see Bridesmaids. I hate to get all aggressive on you, but I love this movie so much, I can’t not feel a little preemptively hostile. It is funny and moving and great, to the extent that I’m writing this blog post as a supplement to my blurb review in this week’s SF Bay Guardian. Which is reprinted below for your reading pleasure.

For anyone burned out on bad romantic comedies, Bridesmaids can teach you how to love again. This film is an answer to those who have lamented the lack of strong female roles in comedy, of good vehicles for Saturday Night Live cast members, of an appropriate showcase for Melissa McCarthy. The hilarious but grounded Kristen Wiig stars as Annie, whose best friend Lillian (Maya Rudolph) is getting hitched. Financially and romantically unstable, Annie tries to throw herself into her maid of honor duties — all while competing with the far more refined Helen (Rose Byrne). Bridesmaids is one of the best comedies in recent memory, treating its relatable female characters with sympathy. It’s also damn funny from start to finish, which is more than can be said for most of the comedies Hollywood continues to churn out. Here’s your choice: let Bridesmaids work its charm on you, or never allow yourself to complain about an Adam Sandler flick again.

I’m serious about this, guys. It’s kind of like when people say you can’t complain about politics if you don’t vote. It is our duty to support good, smart comedy so that the studios will just say no to dreck like Something Borrowed and The Zookeeper (with Kevin James!). The latter are films that the kind of films that critics pan but that audiences continue to go see. Or I don’t know, maybe Rob Schneider made a deal with the devil. The point is, seeing a movie like Bridesmaids sends a message. You’re demanding better! You want Kristen Wiig and Maya Rudolph in starring roles! You want quality toilet humor!

Part of being a film critic is seeing crappy movies—it’s unavoidable. And I never expect Hollywood to just stop making shit. My concern is that they’ll stop making the comedies I want to see, the aforementioned Wet Hot American Summer and Hamlet 2, the anti-chick flick Bridesmaids. Or that a female-centric, character-driven comedy will just be so difficult to make that no one will want to do it. Many movie actors have already made the transition to TV—in part because TV is damn good these days, but also because the film industry is kind of fucked. And that’s a bummer. If I’m going to pay $12 for a movie ticket, I want to be able to laugh consistently for two hours. I don’t want to spend 80 minutes wondering what the fat man is going to bump into next.

I was delighted to see that Entertainment Weekly’s Owen Gleiberman gave Bridesmaids an A (read his review here). I had no doubt that this was an A movie, but I was concerned that it might not be regarded as such. I don’t think I need to tell you that comedy is an underappreciated genre. You can look at the giant list o’ Best Picture Oscar nominees to see how rarely something chuckle-worthy gets recognition. (It’s been a bit better in recent years, but how lame is it that we have to turn to the effing Golden Globes for Best Comedy?) I think critics have an easier time dismissing a lot of comedy, too—not all of them, certainly, but enough. And who can blame them when they’re forced to sit through Paul Blart: Mall Cop? (I was forced to sit through Paul Blart: Mall Cop.)

You know what, maybe Bridesmaids isn’t for you. Maybe it’s not your style of comedy. Your opinion is valid, even though it’s wrong. But take a chance on a flick Vince Vaughn hasn’t touched. Allow yourself to be won over by comedic all-stars like Wendi McLendon-Covey, Mike Hitchcock, Rebel Wilson, and Matt Lucas, who don’t often find themselves in a Judd Apatow-produced film. Maybe I sound too gushy, but until I can control everyone with my brain (by 2013, fingers crossed!), writing is the best chance I have to influence your choices. See Bridesmaids. Let me know what you think. Don’t let the comedy terrorists win.

No, I don’t know what that means either.

Yesterday, my Twitter buddy Steven Amiri tweeted the following: “Wet Hot American Summer is on Netflix Instant. Do yourself a favor, log off here & watch it. If you don’t like it, log back on & unfollow me.” I feel the same way—though I’d probably never say it in those words, because I’m afraid of losing followers and I’m not too big on ampersands. But Wet Hot American Summer is essential viewing. I can’t imagine anyone would like me and not like that movie. (Note that I’m not presumptuous enough to think that everyone who likes the movie would necessarily like me.) This got me thinking about other comedies I’ve inflicted on friends in an effort to decide whether or not they were worth keeping around. Does that sound terrible? At least I’m judging people for their comedic tastes and not their looks. (Most of my friends are super cute, anyway.)

Lately, the movie I’m most likely to force on you is Hamlet 2. It’s one of the best and most underappreciated comedies of the last decade, and if you can’t handle the songs “Raped in the Face” or “Rock Me, Sexy Jesus,” we’re probably not going to get along. Hamlet 2 works especially well if you’re a fan of musicals, though I’ll admit that I occasionally take on friends who aren’t theater-oriented. On the other hand, Steve Coogan, Catherine Keener, Elisabeth Shue, Amy Poehler—these are people you must know and appreciate. (I’m also fond of David Arquette, but it’s fine if you don’t feel the same way. Hater.) Along with Wet Hot American Summer, Hamlet 2 is probably the comedy I’ve watched most often, but if we watch it together, I promise not to say any of the lines out loud. I totally hate when other people do that.

Obviously Annie Hall is a classic, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t cite Woody Allen as a major influence. (Duh, right?) I prefer that my friends appreciate all Woody Allen films—OK, maybe not Curse of the Jade Scorpion—but Annie Hall is the one you kind of have to love. I think it’s his most approachable and it’s full of the Jewish humor I was raised on. Allen is probably the reason I still identity as a Jew, strange as that may sound: I haven’t been to temple in years, but I feel such a strong kinship to Allen (and Philip Roth, natch) that I can’t not be Jewish. My other favorite Allen comedies are Deconstructing Harry and Mighty Aphrodite, so bonus points if you enjoy both or either. Sometimes Deconstructing Harry actually displaces Annie Hall as my favorite, even though the latter is probably a better film.

And then there are the outrageously bad movies I show people: Valley of the Dolls, Wild Things, Starship Troopers. These are my favorites. These are my—I shit you not—first date movies. The ability to appreciate the camp factor and sincerity of a trashy flick is such an important trait. I like people who don’t take themselves too seriously: sure, you can dig Kubrick and Kurosawa, but if you don’t also occasionally dip into the Denise Richards oeuvre, you’re missing out on something special. Of the three above, Valley of the Dolls is the best—in my mind, it is the greatest bad movie of all time. Believe it or not, I have shown it to people who didn’t laugh once, not even at Neely O’Hara’s cathartic alley breakdown, and no, I didn’t kick them to the curb. But it makes me a little sad. Realistically, we’re never going to watch Showgirls together.

Honestly, you could hate all these movies and we could still be friends. I’m a lot nicer than I pretend to be on the internet. But taste in comedy is a good gauge of a person’s character. You wouldn’t hang out with someone whose favorite comedy was Grown Ups, would you? I mean, that’s just silly.

I only made it through 20 minutes of Adam Green’s “screwball tradgedy [sic]” The Wrong Ferrari. I like Adam Green’s music and I like the idea of Macaulay Culkin dressed up as Luigi, but that wasn’t enough to sustain my interest. You know when you say something is “hipster bullshit,” and then someone else says, “What does that even mean?” This movie. This movie is what that means. I can’t offer a full review because I didn’t watch the whole film—not even close—so I’ll comment on what I’ve seen so far and wait until I can muster the energy to watch the rest.

From the get-go, The Wrong Ferrari is nostalgia porn. It takes a bunch of familiar images from our childhood and assembles them haphazardly. And while I guess there’s supposed to be method to the madness, the end result is Adam Green holding you by the shoulders and shaking you. “Do you remember Nintendo cartridges? Do you remember the AOL dial-up sound? Do you remember Teddy Ruxpin?” On some level, of course, it works. I see Macaulay Culkin as Luigi and I want to watch Home Alone and play Super Mario Bros. (Or the Home Alone game on Gameboy, because I NEVER BEAT IT.) I see Garfield bedsheets, and I remember how I used to have Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle ones.

But that’s cheap. It’s easy. Meanwhile, the dialogue is absurd and sexualized enough to get your attention. I’ll admit to laughing at, “That’s like the night your penis turned into the devil,” but I can’t say why. And everyone says “faggot” incessantly, which seems kind of edgy until you remember that it’s still one of the slurs you can get away with. Especially if you’re Adam Green, because his sexuality is fluid or whatever. My beef here isn’t with Green in particular, because I think this speaks to a larger issue in (forgive me) hipster culture. Just remember—wearing skinny jeans and kissing boys every once in a while might get you called a faggot, but it doesn’t mean you don’t enjoy heterosexual privilege.

Anyway, I want to watch The Wrong Ferrari again in 40 years. (I’m definitely going to forget, so do me a solid and remind me, yeah?) I say this in part because I watched 1970′s Beyond the Valley of the Dolls again last night. It’s one of my favorites, but I think maybe I love it for all the wrong reasons—it’s so ’70s, it’s so Russ Meyer. I appreciate it as a product of its time, and I don’t even mind that it tries too hard to be hip. As is the case with The Wrong Ferrari, I’m not even sure what’s intended ironically and what’s sincere. (And is the sincerity ironic? Is the irony sincere?) So, yeah, all the shit that annoys me about Green’s movie might be totally charming in 2051—assuming we make it that far as a species, which is obviously kind of iffy.

You can watch The Wrong Ferrari in its entirety on the website. Do it. Tell me what I’m missing. Explain why I just don’t get it.