She Got Next

TRAINWRECK (B) - It's difficult to separate the phenomenon of Amy Schumer -- layered with the news of Uncle Judd Apatow's adoption of another young female comic -- from her debut film as a writer and star. It's probably just a coincidence that "Trainwreck" debuted the same weekend as the latest flaccid widget from the Woody Allen factory. And here I am, caught in the middle, a middle-aged man trying to make sense of a potty-mouthed comedy that is revealed to be nothing more than a run-of-the-mill rom-com.

At times this is sharply funny. When a date goes down on her, Amy shamelessly directs him to "the top" -- "everything's at the top." But then she ruins the moment by falling asleep after her orgasm -- like a guy, get it? But wait ... she's faking it! (The sleeping, not the orgasm, apparently.) The whole movie is essentially one long sketch with the theme "What if women acted like men and men acted like women?!"

Because, you see, the guys are all sensitive and stuff, and they like to talk out their relationships and their feelings, even with each other. It's surprising that the film works at all, and Schumer has a strong cast of actors and comedians (and pro athletes) who enliven her script while also exposing her as somewhat of the weak stick in the lineup.

I haven't watched but a few clips of Schumer's sketch show, but this felt like an excruciatingly long skit. We all know by now that Apatow is an overly indulged faux-teur, and this, predictably, limps in at more than two hours. It's one of those films where you check the time and you say (hopefully not out loud), "Wait, there's still a half hour left? How can that be?" Of course, that comes amid a string of tropes -- the meet-cute, the whirlwind montage, the breakup, the sad Big Event, the pining, the Sunday morning conversion (she's a drunken slut, by the way -- you know, like a guy), and, of course, right before the climax ....

Oh, I can't tell you the ending. You have to guess. Actually, you won't really have to guess. You'll know.

So what makes this edgy? What makes it contemporary? (Besides the casual vulgarity.) After many recent false alarms, here is a movie that's actually a lot like Allen's "Annie Hall." Except less clever, and more predictable. Who would have thought that after four decades, the great subverted silly love story would still reign.

Oh, lord. I sound like an anachronistic grump. Am I really thinking that this saucy young lady is no '70s Woody Allen? That these cuspy X/Millennials don't know from funny?

There's something about Schumer that makes me think of a deal with the devil. She's funny enough, but she's no Sarah Silverman or Chris Rock. She's no pioneer; Elayne Boosler, Joan Rivers and the "Ab Fab" gals were slinging the raunch decades ago. And they wore dresses that fit them. This essay at Salon is interesting, not so much in the way it explores what it calls Schumer's "casual racism" but rather in the way it picks apart the script's rickety structure. And this essay at the Atlantic makes the case that it's revolutionary to show a lead female character who's both likeable and loathsome at the same time. Neither author got me any closer to solving the riddle of why this comedian at this moment gets the marquee slot at the summer box office. And why she gets swallowed up in her own creation.

The cast is best served in small doses; again, the running time does Apatow and Schumer no favors. The talented Vanessa Bayer ("Saturday Night Live") has never been so inexplicably unfunny, and if you pay attention to my helpful parentheticals, you know that she's had plenty of opportunities to be unfunny. We're supposed to laugh at her outfits, but the character is an empty suit. Bill Hader is a can't-miss comedian, but here he collapses under the weight of the great-guy goodness that is love-interest Aaron (a sports surgeon with a charitable heart). I kept thinking, "I loved every minute of him in 'Skeleton Twins' and didn't want it to end, but now I can't wait for the credits to roll." Brie Larson's vast talent is wasted in a trite role of Amy's sister making a go with a husband (Mike Birbiglia, also drained of humor) and stepson (who, of course, acts like a prissy little girl).

Better off are the bit players, some of whom inject an obvious improvisational jolt to the script. Colin Quinn is scattershot hilarious as Amy's bitter, racist, former philandering dad now suffering from multiple sclerosis. His opening scene -- a flashback where he schools his girls in the evils of monogamy -- is very funny ... until Apatow runs it into the ground (an omen). Dave Attel slings zingers as the erudite homeless guy (only in the movies) who hangs out outside Amy's apartment, philosophizing Greek-chorus style. Tilda Swinton, mascara'd to within an inch of the swingin' '60s, bats Schumer around comedically like a cat toying with a wounded bird; she does the newbie no favors.  Lebron James, playing himself (the doc's patient and pal), is surprisingly effective as an actor; he's warm and funny and, yes, more dimensional than the writer/star. Finally, John Cena struggles as Amy's earlier boyfriend, a thick-headed muscle boy. He is forced to toss out homo-erotic one-liners (is he a closet case or just stupid?), and it's hard to tell whether the writing fails or he does.

Other scenes are just unnecessary and should have been the first ones cut. Daniel Radcliffe and Marisa Tomei (huh?) star in a black-and-white film-within-a-film that goes nowhere. Perhaps the biggest belly flop involves a sports/celebrity roundtable -- Chris Evert, Matthew Broderick and Marv Albert, randomly -- critiquing Aaron.

In other words, the movie -- like the lead character -- is a hot mess. (At least until, literally overnight, she changes her ways!) It's the result of a new screenwriter/star falling prey to an overbearing mentor who is turning into a hack of a director.

What is it about Amy Schumer? Maybe next time we'll get a chance to find out.