Baby Mama (2008)

It feels like I'm shitting a knife!
-Angie (Amy Poehler) on labor pains.



Baby Mama scored only so-so reviews in the mainstream press. Despite my overall agreement with the consensus that this comedy ran a little too gooey towards the end—or, maybe better stated, the fact that the story isn't as unapologetically (some might say obnoxiously) biting as the film's flabby brethren of the Apatow/McKay sort, I did delight in Tina Fey and Amy Poehler's lady version of the buddy comedy. About time we had some ladies represented in a wedding dress-free comedy. Yes, not a one walks down the aisle to her Prince Charming (and there are no bridesmaids either).

On that note, I once heard a comedienne from Second City tell an audience of aspiring female sketch artists that there was nothing wrong with playing the girlfriend or the wife—“that's who we are," she said. But that definition isn't perfectly sufficient, especially for an impressionable group of girls looking to be respected professionally and intellectually, as well as in their own relationships and parental roles.

The thing about Fey and Poehler is that their comedy doesn't shun those roles—the girlfriend, wife or baby-craving singleton; they understand there is nothing intrinsically wrong with portraying women in the roles they traditionally inhabit; Fey and Poehler just give them a lot more flavor. It's fine to play the girlfriend, as long as she has dimension, ambition or intelligence, or all of the above. When women's roles go awry, I think of male centric stories that don't care to, or don't know how to make female characters behave. In these cases you get women like the domineering and shrewish wives as seen in I Think I Love My Wife (2007) and Knocked Up (2007), for recent examples of skewed gender behavior.

In Baby Mama, Kate (Fey) is a top executive at an organic food chain, and a lot of her lower-ranking coworkers are male. She's single, but she's not a wine-swizzling and weight obsessed Bridget Jones type; she has power and confidence. And as much as her gum-smacking sidekick, Angie (Poehler), commands attention with crass behavior that keeps her relegated to the realm of the cared-for rather than the caretaker (dependent versus independent), juxtaposed against Fey, her character is a brazen example of how not to be; Angie is essentially the female version of the unlikeable (but very funny) guy Ben Stiller plays a la Dodgeball (2004) in the Frat Pack comedies. Even then, Angie is not without virtue. She has street smarts and a lively sense of humor. Fey's character is no doubt on the way to classic female shrewdom without her.


On The Critics
Something else struck me about Baby Mama that the leading male comedies of recent years have not encountered, which is a degree of gender bias in the critics’ circles. Overwhelmingly, female critics shared reservations about Baby Mama's success, citing a slow-down in comic momentum and timing, just as the male critical consensus stated; but of the three female critics I sampled—Manohla Dargis (New York Times), Carina Chocano (L.A. Times) and Lisa Schwarzbaum (Entertainment Weekly)--they conceded plenty of laughs and a general likeness. Here are some excerpts from their reviews:

The film never comes fully to term, as it were: the visual style is sitcom functional, and even the zippiest jokes fall flat because of poor timing. But, much like the prickly, talented Ms. Fey, it pulls you in with a provocative and, at least in current American movies, unusual mix of female intelligence, awkwardness and chilled-to-the-bone mean.
-Manohla Dargis, NYT: April 25, 2008

Baby Mama...is blithely unconcerned with gender-baiting. In fact, the movie hardly allows itself any sharp moments at all--it's much too sweet-natured to be cruel, and much too cheerful to be angry. It probably could have pushed a few more buttons, but Baby Mama aims to please and succeeds.
-Carina Chocano, LAT: April 25, 2008

Written by SNL alum Michael McCullers, who makes his directing debut with gawky visual inexperience, Baby Mama turns square midway through the pregnancy saga, then heads for a most un-Fey-like, aw-gee tale of happily-ever-after...But although the big picture itself gets mushy...[Fey] has become a madame comedy ambassador of her sex, able to negotiate with the big boys, then relate the experience in a way that has the smart girls hooting with knowing laughter.
-Lisa Schwarzbaum, EW: April 25, 2008

A lot of male critics, on the other hand, were quick to dismiss the movie with hardly an acknowledgement of the film’s aforementioned strengths, and in a couple of cases go as far as to use a double standard to judge the Will Ferrell-Adam McKay films against Fey and Poehler's Baby Mama. I found two particularly bothersome cases in which the Fey-Poehler comedy received poor marks for spotlighting their on-screen absurdity over concrete plot, while Ferrell's films were heralded as successes for precisely this reason. Nick Schager (Slant) and Robert Wilonsky (The Village Voice) had, respectively, worse and worst things to say about Baby Mama that are eerily similar to the arguments they make on behalf of McKay's Anchorman and Talladega Nights (2006).

From Nick Schager at Slant:

Baby Mama is nothing but a collection of lame scenarios...propped up by its leading ladies' inherent likeability and the occasional loopy one-liner.
-Nick Schager, Slant: "Baby Mama," April 18, 2008

McKay's scattershot comedy is primarily founded on the premise that there's nothing funnier than dialogue strewn with ludicrously illogical lines.
-Nick Schager, Slant: "Anchorman," May 6, 2004

And this from The Village Voice's Robert Wilonsky:

Ultimately,[Baby Mama] exists solely to reunite a winning comic duo...Kate and Angie are just Tina and Amy goofing around--drunk-dancing, crooning along to video-game karaoke, and, once more, finishing each other's sentences.
-Robert Wilonsky, The Village Voice: "Baby Mama," April 22, 2008

Talladega Nights...has just enough story to justify being labeled a narrative. But the tale of Ricky Bobby...is beside the point. It's just the watered-down glue that keeps the movie from playing like a series of sketches in which grown-ass men do dumbass-kid stuff for nearly two hours.
-Robert Wilonsky, The Village Voice: "Talladega Nights," July 25, 2006

See the distinction? Me either. For Wilonsky, it seems nothing Fey or Poehler do in this movie—or what the movie might mean to a female audience seeking representation of issues relevant to them—is worth anything. There’s a patronizing air to his prose that seems like he’s under firm restraint from saying outright how lame it is for women to dabble in a male medium. Whether it’s his comparison to leading male SNL comedies (“Baby Mama’s little more than Tommy Boy on estrogen-replacement therapy,” in which case, I’m not sure is a bad thing); his sole identification with the film’s secondary male characters (“Steve Martin…steals the show from the sidelines,” in which case he is completely wrong, for that’s precisely Poehler’s character); his belittling tone toward acute female desires (“Kate, of course, wants a baby,” silly girl!); or his unrepentant offensiveness (“I’d rather watch MILF Island"), he has proven that his review is not so much criticism as it is condescension.

Movies of Shame Monday: "You've Never Seen What!?"

My name is Beth and I have plenty to be ashamed of. I've never made it through Jim Jarmusch's Dead Man without falling asleep. As a child, I taped over my dad's copy of Raiders of the Lost Ark with Grease 2. A student of mine recently looked at me with great concern (as though he suddenly doubted the value of his education) when I admitted that I had never seen Blow Up. Of all my dirty little secrets, however, the one I've found most problematic of late is this: Until this past weekend, I, Beth Marquis, had never seen Primary (Robert Drew, 1960)

Now, I know that - at first glance - this might not seem as distressing as, say, replacing Indy's iconic boulder with Adrian Zmed's much less impressive bowling ball, but here's the thing. My dissertation is on documentary film. I've spent most of the last 3 years of my life watching, reading about and pondering documentary films. I've written exams designed to test my 'expertise' of the documentary field. And yet somehow, I've never managed to take the 57 minutes necessary to watch the film that is widely credited with initiating the hugely influential American Direct Cinema movement. That's right... I'm basically an intellectual fraud.

So, it was with a vague sense of relief that I sat down to watch the film this weekend. Finally, I would get to witness all of those things I'd read about: the breathtaking long take following Kennedy through an admiring crowd, the evocatively edited closeups of feet pounding pavement and hands shaking endless rows of hands, the future president's engaging and charismatic performance. Indeed, each of these was just as impressive as so many commentators have claimed.

What I found most striking about the film, though, was the way in which Drew and his team managed to validate their own professional project even as they constructed an image of the 1960 Wisconsin Primary. At one point, the camera lingers as a bemused JFK is arranged and re-arranged into a series of rather artificial poses by a photographer. Later, it meticulously records as Hubert Humphrey establishes a step-by-step script for an upcoming television appearance. In this manner, the film subtly emphasizes the falsity and manipulation of the traditional media from which Direct Cinema practitioners attempted to break away. And, as a result, the Direct Cinema camera of Primary seems intent on 'revealing' not only the candidates and the political process, but also its own privileged status as unpremeditated conveyor of 'truth'. We all know how problematic that claim actually is, but, I've got to admit, Drew's clever strategy makes it seem pretty persuasive - if only for the duration of the film itself.

Now, if only I could make it through the Neil Young lullaby that accompanies Dead Man...

Movies of Shame Monday: "You've Never Seen What!?"

"Smokey, this is not ‘Nam. This is bowling. There are rules."

Hello, my name is Kitzie and I have a confession to make. I have long considered myself an outspoken feminist writer and comedy connoisseur, but up until last Friday, there remained one phrase I dared not speak in mixed company.

“I, Kitzie Winship, have never seen The Big Lebowski.”

Back in college, references to the film ranged from constant quoting by (male) friends to a direct parody by my sketch comedy group that went over my pre-Lebowski head. The other members of my intramural bowling team declared us “Team Lebowski” and proposed team jerseys adorned with our appropriate names. I was elected, as the sole woman, to be Bunny. I had no idea of the true depth of the insult until three evenings ago when I finally saw The Big Lebowski and promptly got out the nail polish remover.

A moratorium on Lebowski quoting was recently declared at my office, causing me to finally submit to curiosity and borrow the DVD from a coworker. Expecting a classy Super Troopers, I admittedly was pleasantly surprised. The Big Lebowski, with its careful attention to detail and sharply written dialogue that has become synonymous with Coen Brothers films, is a more complex creature.

Having viewed the film, I can understand how Lebowski’s cult status was earned through a broader appeal than other “guy movies.” I was expecting the mindless slapstick of Caddyshack or at least the sexism of Animal House. (Should the hormonal college boy rape the drunk girl or take the moral high ground and wheel her home in a shopping cart? Stay tuned for the hilarious conclusion!) Granted, Lebowski’s Dude (Jeff Bridges) found himself forced to choose between saving the life of a porn star/trophy wife and a million dollars in cash. I related to The Dude’s moral dilemma, considering whether, if given the same choice, I would be so quick to sacrifice such a large sum for Tara Reid’s welfare. The situation is so divorced from reality that the film allows us to sympathize when The Dude’s buddy, Walter Sobchak (John Goodman), manages to botch the mission and confront the resulting panic by suggesting the two forget the ordeal and go bowling. What distinguishes The Big Lebowski from other “guy films” is that neither the characters nor the film effectively escape the consequences of their actions, or more frequently, inactions. What Lebowski lacks in puppets and toga parties, it makes up for in heart.

The women of the Lebowski universe, while secondary and somewhat archetypal, are not objectified or dismissed as trivial. The nymphomaniac trophy wife Bunny and her embittered feminist concept artist step-daughter Maude (Julianne Moore) play critical roles in advancing the already complex plot, allowing them far more agency than is typically allotted to these archetypes. Even the off-screen Cynthia Sobchak plays a crucial role in Walter’s past and consequently, his present state, from his religion to his role as defensive pet sitter. These women shape the lives and control the fates of the film’s male protagonists, rather than serving as background pieces or punch lines. The filmmakers seem fully aware of the fine line they are treading, successfully winking at us as an occasional acknowledgment that yes, the female characters are sometimes little more than ideas, but no, they are not simply included to be titillating. Maude’s explanation of the relationship of feminism, sex, and pornography is delightfully self-conscious, as is the conclusion of her sexual encounter with The Dude. I am in awe of the Coens’ ability to transform male fantasy into nightmare in a single scene. The final wink transpires in a diner when the nihilist gang leader’s sullen girlfriend (played by the fantabulous Aimee Mann) utters her single line in German and is revealed to have existed solely to provide a toe.

The Big Lebowski takes unlovable archetypes--unemployed ex-radical stoner, clingy sidekick, volatile war veteran--and allows them to be themselves. In not forcing a twist or the emergence of a hidden virtue in any of the characters, the film presents a challenge to an audience expecting these characters to morph into the heroes they were simply not born to be. Their flaws are explored with a kindness and respect that allows us to revel in the humor of the absurdity of their lives without feeling judgmental or exploitive. Jeff “The Dude” Lebowski is perhaps my generation’s Everyman. Crimes are committed, wars are fought, and he is grocery shopping in his bathrobe. The Dude drinks White Russians, smokes pot, and bowls, “taking it easy for the rest of us.” He doesn’t know whether or not his team will win the upcoming tournament and neither do we. The wealthy Jeffrey Lebowski warns The Dude that “the bums will always lose.” By the time the closing credits rolled, I could neither confirm nor refute that statement. Somehow it didn’t matter. I think The Dude would agree.

Well, it’s done. I watched, survived, and even enjoyed a “guy movie.” The Big Lebowski is indeed the hilarious, witty, and often poignant film the jerks on my bowling team claimed it to be. And certainly quotable. I felt for The Dude and his rug. They really did tie the room (and the film) together.

Oh, This Isn't Good.

Mr. Leggs Jeans (1970) is officially not helping the cause.
(Thanks to our friends at Tits and Gore for passing this along.)



Here's what the text reads:

Though she was a tiger lady, our hero didn’t have to fire a shot to floor her. After one look at his Mr. Leggs slacks, she was ready to have him walk all over her. That noble styling sure soothes the savage heart! If you’d like your own doll-to-doll carpeting, hunt up a pair of these he-man Mr. Leggs slacks. Such as our new automatic wash wear blend of 65% “Dacron®” and 35% rayon–incomparably wrinkle-resistant. About $12.95 at plush-carpeted stores.

The ad wizards behind this must have a hard time explaining it to their female progeny.

Mannly Movies: The Insider (1999)

I was blown away by Michael Mann's The Insider (1999) last Wednesday, when I watched it again for the first time. (As the movie began I realized I had seen it prior to this--when, is a matter I don’t have the memory to address.) This is Michael Mann's last movie shot on film before he made the move to digital--first with Ali (2001), then with the miraculous Collateral (2004) and Miami Vice (2006)--though the images in this, the earliest in the series of flicks mentioned, foreshadows what was to come in the years ahead. Shaky hand-held extreme close-ups are the key. Many have a halo of light around them, like a weird digital aura. And much like Mann accomplished in Collateral and Miami Vice, the cityscape plays a calculated role in the story. The Los Angeles city lights hang in the background of Jaime Foxx's taxi tour in Collateral as much as the storm clouds (and Miami city lights too) loom ominously in Miami Vice.

The Insider never neglects its surroundings either, showing a suspension bridge in the far background as former tobacco company scientist, Jeffrey Wigand (Russell Crowe), chats with 60 Minutes producer, Lowell Bergman (Al Pacino), covertly in his car in the foreground, close-up. It's a breathtaking realization of space that shows the curiosity Mann has for the locations he captures; his outdoor shots are an exploration of that setting that give an extra bit of character to an otherwise mundane two-shot car interior. Mann plays with his interior shots as well, in particular, a restaurant scene with the two aforementioned characters, in which the camera flips back-and-forth at 180-degrees. Jeffrey and Lowell sit on either side of the table and we watch them from a profile angle; the camera, alternating between the two sides gives the effect of a trick film: magically the characters have switched spots, Mann's way of creating extra vertigo to a story that is already dizzying with terror and mystery.

Coating the entire story and visuals, though, is something unspoken: an unapologetically masculine mood. It's more than typical action fare, with special attention paid to cars and motors, male power struggles, explosions and things--all of that is certainly there, but seems hyper-aware of that cultural standard. Mann makes the manliest of movies (as I think is especially the case with The Insider, and perhaps something earlier like Heat (1995) too), because there is a balance between his male characters' vulnerability and the things that define their traditional strength: cars zooming off into the horizon at top speed, the glitz of money and material wealth, yelling matches, and of course, very few interactions with women that don't involve sex. On the latter note, Gina Gershon's character, a no-nonsense, high-powered lawyer, has practically no lines in comparison with Pacino's, for instance; and even then, besides Jeffrey's helpless and nearly voice-less wife, there is barely a female presence in the film at all. But we don’t watch Michael Mann’s movies for the female perspective, and judging his films only on the surface, it’s plain to see that’s not what motivates him anyway. His own masculine aesthetic provides for some of the best action, and one of the most compelling stories composed on celluloid.

Win a Trip to the Premiere of Hancock

I've been a Will Smith fan since his Fresh Prince days, and though I was not particularly impressed with I Am Legend, I am willing to give it a try with Hancock. What's not to like about a down-and-out superhero? I'll also give director Peter Berg a chance since he does have a hand in Friday Night Lights and The Kingdom. I was just informed that W Desires, which is a promo site for the W Magazine, is hosting a contest for the film, through which you can win a trip the the movie's premiere in Hollywood. All you have to do is give up your secondary email - don't deny it, we all have that second email account with which we sign up for additional chances to win the latest Bluefly contest, etc. - and you will be entered for a chance to win a round trip to LA, with a friend, and get yourselves all done up for the red carpet premiere.

Still not convinced? Watch the trailer below and decide for yourself. If they insist on doing my hair and make-up for a red carpet, I'll never say no:

Image: Courtesy of Columbia Pictures.