Carell and Carrey mage war If mainstream culture is anything to go by, magicians are a comical bunch. They draw us in with practiced showmanship, impress us with a goofy party trick, and have a wonky, ostentatious taste in wardrobe. Made for a good comedy, aren’t they? At least that’s true for Burt Wonderstone. At best an onslaught of hilarity, its confirmation that movie-magic doesn’t necessarily begin and end with The Prestige. Jim Carrey specifically, in a sort-of-comeback, is on maniacal form. So why, like discovering the machinery behind the ol’ coin behind the ear, does the allure tend to vanish in a thick puff of smoke?  Burt’s a wealthy, world-renowned mage when we meet him, but life wasn’t always so swell. Childhood, to say the least, was brutal. No prizes for guessing that a love of sorcery made him somewhat of an easy target for the stick of bullies. From this rough patch came relief though, in the form of fellow magic-enthusiast, Anton (an unusually sympathetic Steve Buscemi) whose friendship sets the basis for a popular Vegas magic-act. That is, until Burt’s egotism and a new competitor leads to both bruising incident and an unmistakable rift in their relationship.  This partnership is the beating heart of Wonderstone, even if Carell’s unpleasant treatment of Buscemi makes him difficult to get behind initially. Carell simply hasn’t played a character this unlikable (or tanned) and now we know why. We’re running out of excuses to make for a man with the world, wealth and women all in his hands, and yet not a shred of care for those around him. Under the anchorage of here-and-there 30 Rock director Don Scardino, this is also nowhere near as smart as it needs to be. Sure, Jon Goldstein’s script isn’t short of moments that’ll have you snorting in hysterics. A magic-themed sex scene shows shades of the wit we know Scardino produces week-in-week-out with Liz Lemon and co. Yet, moments like these are criminally short, handfuls of scenes plod by with jokes that don’t work rehashed within an inch of their lives. Really, apart from some spot-on physical gags, the zinger-count is disappointingly low.  Fortunately, Scardino is graced with the kind of supporting cast that when given lame writing can make lame-onade. Alan Arkin is great as a seminal-conjurer-turned-senior-citizen, and so is Olivia Wilde as the headstrong magicians assistant looking to break out in a male-dominated business. The real revelation here is Carrey as mystical street magician Steve Gray, who takes magic and turns it into something truly ugly. And still it’s he that we can’t take our eyes off as he commits increasingly deranged acts of bodily harm, all in the name of magic. It’s always fun to see Carrey play such nutty characters, and he nails every scene he’s in here. Wonderstone is funny, sometimes uncontrollably so. What it lacks is the necessary smarts of 30 Rock, which you’d have to say, could’ve turned this pleasurable box of tricks into movie magic. ★★★
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Carell and Carrey mage war

If mainstream culture is anything to go by, magicians are a comical bunch. They draw us in with practiced showmanship, impress us with a goofy party trick, and have a wonky, ostentatious taste in wardrobe. Made for a good comedy, aren’t they? At least that’s true for Burt Wonderstone. At best an onslaught of hilarity, its confirmation that movie-magic doesn’t necessarily begin and end with The Prestige. Jim Carrey specifically, in a sort-of-comeback, is on maniacal form. So why, like discovering the machinery behind the ol’ coin behind the ear, does the allure tend to vanish in a thick puff of smoke?

 Burt’s a wealthy, world-renowned mage when we meet him, but life wasn’t always so swell. Childhood, to say the least, was brutal. No prizes for guessing that a love of sorcery made him somewhat of an easy target for the stick of bullies. From this rough patch came relief though, in the form of fellow magic-enthusiast, Anton (an unusually sympathetic Steve Buscemi) whose friendship sets the basis for a popular Vegas magic-act. That is, until Burt’s egotism and a new competitor leads to both bruising incident and an unmistakable rift in their relationship.

 This partnership is the beating heart of Wonderstone, even if Carell’s unpleasant treatment of Buscemi makes him difficult to get behind initially. Carell simply hasn’t played a character this unlikable (or tanned) and now we know why. We’re running out of excuses to make for a man with the world, wealth and women all in his hands, and yet not a shred of care for those around him. Under the anchorage of here-and-there 30 Rock director Don Scardino, this is also nowhere near as smart as it needs to be. Sure, Jon Goldstein’s script isn’t short of moments that’ll have you snorting in hysterics. A magic-themed sex scene shows shades of the wit we know Scardino produces week-in-week-out with Liz Lemon and co. Yet, moments like these are criminally short, handfuls of scenes plod by with jokes that don’t work rehashed within an inch of their lives. Really, apart from some spot-on physical gags, the zinger-count is disappointingly low.

 Fortunately, Scardino is graced with the kind of supporting cast that when given lame writing can make lame-onade. Alan Arkin is great as a seminal-conjurer-turned-senior-citizen, and so is Olivia Wilde as the headstrong magicians assistant looking to break out in a male-dominated business. The real revelation here is Carrey as mystical street magician Steve Gray, who takes magic and turns it into something truly ugly. And still it’s he that we can’t take our eyes off as he commits increasingly deranged acts of bodily harm, all in the name of magic.

It’s always fun to see Carrey play such nutty characters, and he nails every scene he’s in here. Wonderstone is funny, sometimes uncontrollably so. What it lacks is the necessary smarts of 30 Rock, which you’d have to say, could’ve turned this pleasurable box of tricks into movie magic.

★★★

Marriage rows  You have to hand it Apatow. Even when the man isn’t busy, you could hardly accuse him of taking it easy. In truth, the presence of this comic deity can still be seen flitting in and between projects, occasionally slapping his name on those that take his fancy (Girls and Wanderlust to name a few). Apatow the director has definitely taken a backseat to Apatow the here-and-there producer. So now that he’s back behind the lenses for the first time since Funny People, it feels like he barely left. Accordingly, this 4-year sabbatical has worked wonders. Not only does Forty show a more seasoned directorial touch, but its jokes too seem recharged and ripened with age.  This is all about the strain that age (and additional factors) can place on a marriage running out of ideas. Judd felt that it was a story that had to be told to a fresher generation, borrowing his charming supporting couple from Knocked Up on the way. Forty, which many see as the add-on to that story, is arguably better billed as a twin to Funny People, carrying that mutual element of death at arms-length. Thrust into this dilemma are Debbie and Pete (friends of Seth Rogen and Katherine Heigl) who find the big 4-0 looming ahead of time. Juggling squabbling teens, pressure at work and clashing musical tastes, they also have to work at keeping their marriage afloat.  Despite strong suggestions to the contrary, this isn’t a happy marriage. Take for example the very first scene. Opening to the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking, this apparent blissfulness is undermined by Pete (Rudd) admitting that he’s only gone and used Viagra. Even an amusing excuse that he “wanted to go turbo” for her birthday fail to salve Debbie (Leslie Mann, Apatow’s real-life wife) and we get the feeling that any brief pleasure will peel away to reveal unrest. It’s a funny, manic little quarrel in which we learn this marriage is clearly on the rocks, but also not beyond saving.  That denotes, quite accurately, that there is a lot of arguing. Rudd and Mann go straight for each other’s throats, the latter coping less well with reaching the milestone. So while Rudd’s slacker turns to snacking on cupcakes (however soggy), Mann’s coping mechanisms range from a covert smoking habit (in one scene she’s virtually indistinguishable from a cancer patient) to outright hysteria. Judd took admiring emotional leaps with Funny People, not afraid to let his cast scream and shout like children. This is a similar exercise in releasing pent-up emotion, with the leads good worth for drama as well as comedy in a house-party crescendo. Debbie and Pete are everyday characters complete with a cheeseboard of irritating quirks and flaws, made worse by his futile attempts to add integrity to a sinking music business, and hers to reconnect with her distant daddy. Building on the sweet chemistry of Knocked Up, Mann and Rudd display the right amount of loveliness to help us withstand them for better or worst. For once, it’s a story delivered tactfully enough not to curl into familiar adultery contours, resulting in beautifully open performances.  Apatow nimbly maintains an organic quality to his scenes, switching fluidly like, well, real life. Naturally, a crude conversation about dysfunctional sexual organs will degenerate into Clooney talk (as you do), and a cheery scene will often end in tense silences. Much has been made of the writer-directors decision to languish amid scenes, luxuriating in the dialogue of his characters. Here though, it’s less an issue of how long he meanders (which is actually an improvement from Funny People) but more of what fills the frames that doesn’t check out. Quite simply, there’s too much going on. Beginning with a loose biking incident, the denouement is directionless even for Apatow. What’s more, Sub-characters tread in and out of the couples orbit, and momentarily fun characters are relegated to the stands. Of these appearances, cherish a golden turn from Albert Brooks (last seen scaring it up in Drive) as Rudd’s sponging father, because ironically, it’s disappointingly short.  No stranger to the odd dick joke, Forty proves Apatow’s capability of juicing simple scenarios for laugh-out-loud moments. The Hollywood funnyman is in his element here, culpable only of repeatedly tickling the funny bone. Chris O’Dowd, in his short part, shows why he’s quickly becoming the Irish M.V.P of the Apatow gang, headlining one of the film’s funniest scenes with his pained delivery (“what the fuck is happening right now?”) and having a fruitless time vying for Megan Fox’s attentions. Mostly, the director just has fun. And any movie that has Mann and family dancing to Nicki Minaj is as inclusive as it gets. Keeping it in the family, Maude (a duplicate of Dana Brody) shows promising signs of one day matching her mother’s comic versatility, a teen that responds to menstruation and old-fashioned parents, hilariously, by blaming the rest of the world. If reaching 40 is this fun, you’ll be after the nearest Age Yourself app in a hurry. Blending the all-out hilarity of Knocked Up with the somberness of Funny People, this approaches the highs (and deafening lows) of married life with endearing, uncomfortable honesty. And while Apatow tries to tell too many stories at once, he makes turning Forty, funny. ★★★★
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Marriage rows

 You have to hand it Apatow. Even when the man isn’t busy, you could hardly accuse him of taking it easy. In truth, the presence of this comic deity can still be seen flitting in and between projects, occasionally slapping his name on those that take his fancy (Girls and Wanderlust to name a few). Apatow the director has definitely taken a backseat to Apatow the here-and-there producer. So now that he’s back behind the lenses for the first time since Funny People, it feels like he barely left. Accordingly, this 4-year sabbatical has worked wonders. Not only does Forty show a more seasoned directorial touch, but its jokes too seem recharged and ripened with age.

 This is all about the strain that age (and additional factors) can place on a marriage running out of ideas. Judd felt that it was a story that had to be told to a fresher generation, borrowing his charming supporting couple from Knocked Up on the way. Forty, which many see as the add-on to that story, is arguably better billed as a twin to Funny People, carrying that mutual element of death at arms-length. Thrust into this dilemma are Debbie and Pete (friends of Seth Rogen and Katherine Heigl) who find the big 4-0 looming ahead of time. Juggling squabbling teens, pressure at work and clashing musical tastes, they also have to work at keeping their marriage afloat.

 Despite strong suggestions to the contrary, this isn’t a happy marriage. Take for example the very first scene. Opening to the unmistakable sounds of lovemaking, this apparent blissfulness is undermined by Pete (Rudd) admitting that he’s only gone and used Viagra. Even an amusing excuse that he “wanted to go turbo” for her birthday fail to salve Debbie (Leslie Mann, Apatow’s real-life wife) and we get the feeling that any brief pleasure will peel away to reveal unrest. It’s a funny, manic little quarrel in which we learn this marriage is clearly on the rocks, but also not beyond saving.

 That denotes, quite accurately, that there is a lot of arguing. Rudd and Mann go straight for each other’s throats, the latter coping less well with reaching the milestone. So while Rudd’s slacker turns to snacking on cupcakes (however soggy), Mann’s coping mechanisms range from a covert smoking habit (in one scene she’s virtually indistinguishable from a cancer patient) to outright hysteria. Judd took admiring emotional leaps with Funny People, not afraid to let his cast scream and shout like children. This is a similar exercise in releasing pent-up emotion, with the leads good worth for drama as well as comedy in a house-party crescendo. Debbie and Pete are everyday characters complete with a cheeseboard of irritating quirks and flaws, made worse by his futile attempts to add integrity to a sinking music business, and hers to reconnect with her distant daddy. Building on the sweet chemistry of Knocked Up, Mann and Rudd display the right amount of loveliness to help us withstand them for better or worst. For once, it’s a story delivered tactfully enough not to curl into familiar adultery contours, resulting in beautifully open performances.

 Apatow nimbly maintains an organic quality to his scenes, switching fluidly like, well, real life. Naturally, a crude conversation about dysfunctional sexual organs will degenerate into Clooney talk (as you do), and a cheery scene will often end in tense silences. Much has been made of the writer-directors decision to languish amid scenes, luxuriating in the dialogue of his characters. Here though, it’s less an issue of how long he meanders (which is actually an improvement from Funny People) but more of what fills the frames that doesn’t check out. Quite simply, there’s too much going on. Beginning with a loose biking incident, the denouement is directionless even for Apatow. What’s more, Sub-characters tread in and out of the couples orbit, and momentarily fun characters are relegated to the stands. Of these appearances, cherish a golden turn from Albert Brooks (last seen scaring it up in Drive) as Rudd’s sponging father, because ironically, it’s disappointingly short.

 No stranger to the odd dick joke, Forty proves Apatow’s capability of juicing simple scenarios for laugh-out-loud moments. The Hollywood funnyman is in his element here, culpable only of repeatedly tickling the funny bone. Chris O’Dowd, in his short part, shows why he’s quickly becoming the Irish M.V.P of the Apatow gang, headlining one of the film’s funniest scenes with his pained delivery (“what the fuck is happening right now?”) and having a fruitless time vying for Megan Fox’s attentions. Mostly, the director just has fun. And any movie that has Mann and family dancing to Nicki Minaj is as inclusive as it gets. Keeping it in the family, Maude (a duplicate of Dana Brody) shows promising signs of one day matching her mother’s comic versatility, a teen that responds to menstruation and old-fashioned parents, hilariously, by blaming the rest of the world. If reaching 40 is this fun, you’ll be after the nearest Age Yourself app in a hurry.

Blending the all-out hilarity of Knocked Up with the somberness of Funny People, this approaches the highs (and deafening lows) of married life with endearing, uncomfortable honesty. And while Apatow tries to tell too many stories at once, he makes turning Forty, funny.

★★★★