The ethnic identity in Superbad is white as a sheet. That shouldn’t detract from its merits as an above-average teen sex comedy, but the race factor begs mentioning; unmitigated whiteness dictates the movie’s scathing portrayal of high school tomfoolery. Co-written by Seth Rogen with his writing partner Evan Goldberg, it relies on the same elements of nostalgia that immortalized the single season run of NBC’s “Freaks and Geeks,” where Rogen (at age 16) played one of several young troublemakers similar to the ones frolicking about in Superbad. These characters’ priorities—booze, sex, college applications—bear the reductive stamp of suburban discontent. Full enjoyment of the screwball plot requires that the audience adopt the same tunnel vision plaguing the protagonists. If it’s only superficially true to life, well, that’s entertainment.
While not as perceptive as Greg Mottola’s charming directorial debut The Daytrippers—a quirky family roadtrip comedy that predates Little Miss Sunshine and contains far more credibility—Mottola’s return to big screen dynamics after a decade of television gigs has a similarly bittersweet vibe, and plenty of calculated humor. Where The Daytrippers explored intrinsic ties between family members in spite of dysfunctional woes, Superbad engages with the twilight moments of childhood friendship. Both stories take place during a short sequence of events and culminate in confrontational party scenes, where all the unspoken drama finally bubbles to the surface. Given the condensed timeline for this sort of structure, eccentric character development comes hard and fast through a virtually unflagging stream of dialogue delivering the principal responsibility of making us laugh.
With the priority of competent wordsmiths in mind, it becomes readily obvious that Superbad is less a product of Mottola’s storytelling (he scripted Daytrippers) than the goofy man-child mentality of Rogen, producer Judd Apatow and the rest of this comedic Jew Wave that also includes Superbad stars Jonah Hill and Michael Cera. Ostensibly about two loser pals intent on drinking and fucking away the waning days of their senior year, a goal presumably reachable if they manage to purchase booze for a cute female classmate’s houseparty, the antics unfold in the same universe of explicit one-liners and winking asides that fueled the engine of Apatow’s Knocked Up. The protagonists are slightly younger this time around, so you might consider it a prequel (Knocked Down?). Pair them up with The 40-Year-Old Virgin and you’ve got one flashy box set.
The focus in both Knocked Up and Superbad is smarminess as a defense mechanism against greater responsibility, manifested as a stream-of-consciousness ramble that sustains the movie through occasional lulls. When Evan (“Arrested Development”’s Cera) is asked by his mother if he’ll miss his portly buddy Seth (Hill) after shipping off to Dartmouth, he flinches. “I don’t ‘miss each other,’” he shoot backs. When the horny duo try out their attire in search of the appropriate ladies’ man appearance, Seth fumes, “No one’s gotten a handjob in cargo pants since ‘Nam.” When Seth bitches about his diminished sex life, suggesting that, at 18, he’s already past his prime, Evan compares him to Orson Welles. With the personalities in place, this stuff writes itself.
Considering that the two adolescents have the same names as the scribes, it’s no leap to consider their personalities as autobiographical creations. They still seem like creatures of populist cinema, particularly the dudes-on-a-quest narratives that date back to Harold and Kumar—but Superbad has a third wheel that broadens the dynamic: Dorky hanger-on Fogell (Christopher Mintz-Plasse), whose brash willingness to go for the gusto—buying a fake ID and choosing the alias “McLuvin”—appeals to Seth’s party lust, while his nerdiness matches Evan’s collegiate sensibilities. Fogell represents the tension between the two main characters, whose post-high school plans differ in terms of motivation and academic finesse. Yet his sprightly mentality illustrates the synthesis between the lead duo.
Why isn’t Mintz-Plasse featured on the Superbad poster? Maybe because his performance feels more like fact than fantasy.
Growing zanier by the moment, the movie dwells on hyperbolic vignettes. When Rogen and Bill Hader show up as bumbling cops of the Keystone variety, the plot loses its realistic hook and goes the way of the cartoon.
Not to worry, though—these guys have a firm grasp on the wonders of wit. Their police car joyride with Fogell cleverly satirizes ageism, as the officers take advantage of the youngsters’ inexperience to assuage their working class doldrums. Having established a hilarious series of adventures, the movie falters when tackling some semblance of a resolution, and it becomes nearly impossible to extricate a happy ending. But the amusingly capricious story gets there eventually, and the ultimate staying power of Superbad is the sum of its jokes.
While not as perceptive as Greg Mottola’s charming directorial debut The Daytrippers—a quirky family roadtrip comedy that predates Little Miss Sunshine and contains far more credibility—Mottola’s return to big screen dynamics after a decade of television gigs has a similarly bittersweet vibe, and plenty of calculated humor. Where The Daytrippers explored intrinsic ties between family members in spite of dysfunctional woes, Superbad engages with the twilight moments of childhood friendship. Both stories take place during a short sequence of events and culminate in confrontational party scenes, where all the unspoken drama finally bubbles to the surface. Given the condensed timeline for this sort of structure, eccentric character development comes hard and fast through a virtually unflagging stream of dialogue delivering the principal responsibility of making us laugh.
With the priority of competent wordsmiths in mind, it becomes readily obvious that Superbad is less a product of Mottola’s storytelling (he scripted Daytrippers) than the goofy man-child mentality of Rogen, producer Judd Apatow and the rest of this comedic Jew Wave that also includes Superbad stars Jonah Hill and Michael Cera. Ostensibly about two loser pals intent on drinking and fucking away the waning days of their senior year, a goal presumably reachable if they manage to purchase booze for a cute female classmate’s houseparty, the antics unfold in the same universe of explicit one-liners and winking asides that fueled the engine of Apatow’s Knocked Up. The protagonists are slightly younger this time around, so you might consider it a prequel (Knocked Down?). Pair them up with The 40-Year-Old Virgin and you’ve got one flashy box set.
The focus in both Knocked Up and Superbad is smarminess as a defense mechanism against greater responsibility, manifested as a stream-of-consciousness ramble that sustains the movie through occasional lulls. When Evan (“Arrested Development”’s Cera) is asked by his mother if he’ll miss his portly buddy Seth (Hill) after shipping off to Dartmouth, he flinches. “I don’t ‘miss each other,’” he shoot backs. When the horny duo try out their attire in search of the appropriate ladies’ man appearance, Seth fumes, “No one’s gotten a handjob in cargo pants since ‘Nam.” When Seth bitches about his diminished sex life, suggesting that, at 18, he’s already past his prime, Evan compares him to Orson Welles. With the personalities in place, this stuff writes itself.
Considering that the two adolescents have the same names as the scribes, it’s no leap to consider their personalities as autobiographical creations. They still seem like creatures of populist cinema, particularly the dudes-on-a-quest narratives that date back to Harold and Kumar—but Superbad has a third wheel that broadens the dynamic: Dorky hanger-on Fogell (Christopher Mintz-Plasse), whose brash willingness to go for the gusto—buying a fake ID and choosing the alias “McLuvin”—appeals to Seth’s party lust, while his nerdiness matches Evan’s collegiate sensibilities. Fogell represents the tension between the two main characters, whose post-high school plans differ in terms of motivation and academic finesse. Yet his sprightly mentality illustrates the synthesis between the lead duo.
Why isn’t Mintz-Plasse featured on the Superbad poster? Maybe because his performance feels more like fact than fantasy.
Growing zanier by the moment, the movie dwells on hyperbolic vignettes. When Rogen and Bill Hader show up as bumbling cops of the Keystone variety, the plot loses its realistic hook and goes the way of the cartoon.
Not to worry, though—these guys have a firm grasp on the wonders of wit. Their police car joyride with Fogell cleverly satirizes ageism, as the officers take advantage of the youngsters’ inexperience to assuage their working class doldrums. Having established a hilarious series of adventures, the movie falters when tackling some semblance of a resolution, and it becomes nearly impossible to extricate a happy ending. But the amusingly capricious story gets there eventually, and the ultimate staying power of Superbad is the sum of its jokes.
