Superbad Review.

This review is based on the film as it was screened in May of this year.

Superbad is not a movie about any one thing in particular, except awkwardness. Can a movie be truly about awkwardness? About how it consumes you in a high school hallway, as a prominent thong around an even more prominent ass consumes you? About how awkwardness never goes away, even when you rise to the top of the small town ranks, as a cop? About how teenagers actually talk about choosing one porn paysite over another? About how if high school really sucks, you’re ecstatic about getting laid via, quote, “a mistake?” Yes, a film can be, and Superbad is these things, and many more.

Easily the funniest movie of the year. Competes with Borat in the Hardest, Most Painful Laughter in the Aughts film. Places Michael Cera front and center on a movie poster where we all know he belongs. Makes “Panama” by Van Halen a great song. Proves Barry Bonds has done steroids.

Okay, “Superbad” can’t fix everything that I think needs fixing, but it’s everything you could ask from a comedy about awkwardness. Noticing a theme here? Awkwardness, which Cera nailed on “Arrested Development,” encompasses so much of our daily lives, and it’s about time that it got it’s own movie.

And since it got it’s own movie, it’s fitting that it’s the first in ages that gives the token Dorkier Dork, known here as McLovin’ (Christopher Mintz-Plasse), some of the better material to work with. Usually, the Dorkiest has nothing else to do but endure physical pain and maybe get some by a freak of nature event. But McLovin’ gets some really funny  stuff to survive through the scenes with Officers Slater and Michaels (Bill Hader & Seth Rogen, respectively), the aforementioned still awkward cops. He gets knocked down in order to meet them, but Plasse comes off well. His time on screen is far from empty dicking around to kill time, and if there’s any way to judge a movie about outcasts, it’s by how it handles those who are outside it’s own outsiders.

You might have noticed, if you got this far, that I barely spoke about the plot of the film. That this was me hoisting awkwardness on my shoulders and giving it a good parade. That’s a couple of things: first, it’s my laziness. Secondly, it’s the most I can do to stop from spoiling the film’s brutal hilarity. “Superbad” is in wide theatrical release starting Friday August 17th.


From Murdoch to the CIA to … Weezey F Baby?

Lil Wayne Baby NYer

Sasha Frere-Jones has done something that some would call impossible, that others would claim was inevitable. A full length profile piece on Lil Wayne, aka. Dwayne Carter, aka Weezey F. Baby in The New Yorker. A sign of the times?

The year is only half over, but Frere-Jones literally says, “But [Wayne] is indisputably the rapper of the year.”

My question is this: Does coverage from the NY’er, along with recent positive coverage in the NYTimes, signal the start of The White Critical Mass’ ❤ Wayne, and, by connection, the end of Lil Wayne’s time making what will be called good by the bloggerati? And then, of course, is either side really ever right?

Why I’m at home instead of at The Rub.

This Is Not Hip Hop.

So a month or so ago, I had meant to go to The Rub, a monthly hip hop night at Brooklyn venue Southpaw. I’m not sure why I didn’t go on that night. Tonight, I’m very aware of why I’m not going; I’m exhausted. And what’s left me in such a state?

The first half of today’s Live at the BBQ in Brooklyn. Left after the Clipse because, even though I knew I was missing The LOX & Large Professor, this was a soul-less show. Organizers were flashing a sign that said “No Cussing, Please!” at performers. Edited Versions is not Hip Hop. I thought Chris Rock proved all this years and years ago in his MTV Diaries episode when he “accidentally” bought an edited Jay-Z album.

Last night, I saw a 11pm show of The Bourne Ultimatum. Saw it at the Kips Bay theater, which I didn’t realize is the yuppie club goer movie house of choice. Seriously every girl there looked like she was about to be trying out for Rock of Love after the film. Very good movie, by the way. The trip home was worsened for the fact that downtown 6 trains were only making express stops from 42nd street to Brooklyn Bridge. So instead of walking to the 28th street 6 train, I had to walk to Union Square. This wouldn’t have been the worst thing ever, except that none of it was explained until I checked the MTA’s website upon getting home. So you have me walking around downtown Manhattan not knowing why the 28th and 23rd street 6 train stations are closed off. I honestly thought something really bad might have happened. Also, I walked past what I only could have assumed were Ladies Of The Night on 28th and Lex.

10-12 hour work days. Being the last person in the office when you’re practically lowest on the totem pole, that kills me.

Rock The Bells, which I’ll write about in greater detail sometime soon, but just think about how much energy a full day festival in horribly humid weather, followed by the least marked trail off of Randall’s Island to the walk across the bridge back to Manhattan, can require.

And then throw in 4 days of being sick, which co-incided with Harry Potter 7 reading, which led to me taking Monday and Tuesday of week before last off, sick. And my throat is still kind of irritated.

So I’ve been exhausted, and it’s also led to me turning my phone off. I’ve needed my space, to some degrees. I hope people understand. Also: end of August, I’m going to Vegas.