Forgetting Sarah Marshall Is Easier Than You Think

I usually let my Netflix account hook me up with some of these films that allegedly promote the "new romantic comedy." That way, I don't feel like I'm wasting a lot of time when I find the movie grossly unfunny and grossly gross. I can simply sit in front of the plasma and do something else while I allegedly watch. A crossword puzzle. A laundry sort. A complete re-organization of the kitchen pantry. That's what is so great about films like "Knocked Up" and "Superbad." You can get so much stuff done in the house.

Now, all those "comedies" got great critical reviews. But, when I see them, I immediately question whether I have completely lost the ability to find anything funny except for what I write in this blog. So, I am always skeptical when a new one is released. And the virtually glowing reviews for "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" made me as apprehensive as I had been in the past. And, then, I watch that movie review show that used to be "Ebert and Roeper," but is now "Roeper and Any Critic Who Just Happens to Be Walking Through Chicago This Week." In his review of "Forgetting Sarah Marshall," Richard Roeper is so impressed that he calls it one of the top 50 movie comedies of all time.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

As good as any Marx Brothers movie?

As good as any screwball comedy from Howard Hawks?

As good as anything concocted by Preston Sturges?

As good as anything Woody Allen did between the years of 1974 and 1995?

As good as anything Billy Wilder wrote and directed ever??

I was intrigued. I wasn't going to wait for it to show up on Netflix. I would see it on the big screen, albeit at a bargain matinee price.

I'm now totally convinced that current movie audiences and critics have lost all historical perspective when it comes to judging film comedies. Because "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" comes nowhere to any of those geniuses I listed above. Indeed, in my book, it might not even come close to Jerry Lewis' "Disorderly Orderly." Has it become that easy to mistake urine for champagne?

In the small myopic canvas that the Sarah Marshall filmmakers paint, there is not one note of relatability or believability. The characters they present are in their everyday worlds but not mine. Sarah Marshall is a beautiful young actress who stars in some CSI-like TV show. Her boyfriend, Peter Bretter, is a TV composer who is also working on an Avenue Q-like version of Dracula. I have as much in common with either one of them as I would with a family of Mexican lettuce pickers. Okay, at the beginning of the movie, she dumps him while he spends an inordinate amount of time crying while he is completely naked. All right, except for the lack of clothing, there are some elements there that will be found in my memoirs. But, similarities end right there. Because the romantic comedy that unfolds from that point on is all comedy and no romance.

But there is plenty of sex.

Lots of sex.

Many sex jokes.

Tons of nudity.

Gags about weird sexual positions.

But absolutely nothing about human emotions and love. And, believe me, those can be funny. Trust me.

The plot is thread-bare. Peter winds up in a Hawaiian hotel in the room right next to Sarah and her new boyfriend, some British rocker who can barely sing. And then there are more jokes about penises, vaginas, orgasms, and erections.

Two interminable hours later, still no romance.

And I think about the lofty comparisons made by Richard Roeper. And all the really funny romantic moments I've seen in other movies.

Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant atop that dinosaur skeleton in "Bringing Up Baby."

Tony Curtis and Marilyn Monroe kissing for the milk fund in "Some Like It Hot."

Woody Allen and Diane Keaton beating a lobster to death in "Annie Hall."

Gary Cooper getting kissing lessons from Barbara Stanwyck in "Ball of Fire."

I could go on and on and on.

There was another disconcerting element to this movie. The acting was pretty bad, but star (and writer of the dreck) Jason Segel bothered me in another way. Every time I saw him, he reminded me of Ted Bessell from the old "That Girl" TV show. And then I kept thinking how you would never hear Marlo Thomas screaming at the top of her lungs. "Donald, F me hard. F me as hard as you can."

Surfing around the internet after I saw "Forgetting Sarah Marshall," I ran into fellow blogger Ken Levine, a renowned comedy writer and now Dodger post-game host, writing about the same movie. And he reminded us all how this exact plot was lifted straight from a two-part episode of "Frasier," where he and his new girlfriend wound up staying at some resort right next door to Lilith and her new beau.

And you can add that to the long, long list of things that are much, much funnier than "Forgetting Sarah Marshall."

And we didn't have to look at Kelsey Grammer's business for ten minutes either.

Dinner last night: Lasagna.