If this is the rape of comedy, what’s next? The apocalypse, apparently.
Post-porn, post-stand-up, post-Pineapple Express, jokes are nude, crude and drug-fuelled.
Girls have a rotten time. With the exception of Emma Watson who pops in carrying an axe and then pops out again, afraid of being violated by actors, this is a lads’ horror flick, gagging on masturbation references, while visually abused by images of Satanic fire beasts with glowing genitalia.
The language would kill Sandra Dee stone dead and the humour goes beyond Gomorrah to a godless pit of incredulity. What begins at James Franco’s party with a heavy-duty earthquake cutting across L.A. and the genuine possibility of an alien invasion ends in lockdown.
Who’s left? Who’s alive? Seth Rogan’s friends. He co-directed and co-wrote this wild Kevin Smith homage. Jonah Hill is here with the rest of the Knocked Up, Superbad, Zack & Miri Make A Porno crowd.
Usually movies, made by buddies for buddies, in which everyone is having a ball, look a mess on screen. This time the mess fuses with the plot. The end of the world isn’t going to be tidy, right?
Rogan is a funny guy. Having actors play themselves actually works. The layers of pretense that protect performers and audiences from the real thing are stripped bare.
What makes this original, even entertaining in a grotesque way, is that the filmmakers have flushed the rule book down the toilet. It makes Dogma look repentant and American Pie look soft. When Channing Tatum is introduced as Danny McBride’s sex slave in a cannibalistic wasteland that was once Hollywood what can you do but laugh?