Jason Segel (Peter) – wimpy butt-nekkid dork.
Kristen Bell (Sarah) – snippy mostly butt-nekkid snot.
Russell Brand (Aldous) – tattooed, skinny butt-nekkid dork.
Mila Kunis (Rachael) – the other snippy mostly butt-nekkid snot.
Jack McBrayer (Darald) – thank GOD we don’t have to see this dork butt-nekkid.
Somewhere along the line Jason Segel figured out that no woman anywhere would ever want to see him butt-nekkid. Now it seems that Segel has figured out something else; how to get people to pay to see him butt-nekkid. This guy drops trou more often than Paris Hilton at a frat party. And the worst of it is this is the last person you’d ever want to see sans clothes. Segel is an affront to frontal nudity. What is it about comedians and comic writers these days not being able to do or write anything that does not include penis jokes, anus jokes and body fluid so-called humor? I’m no stick in the mud, but after awhile it gets irksome. You’re boring me, man, with your “look-at-my-genitals-look-at-my-genitals” pseudo-fantasy. Forgetting Sarah Marshall could easily be retitled “The Penis Monologues.” And since the limp-wristed feelm crit-teeks won’t say it; I’ll say it. SEGEL, YOU’RE NOT FUNNY. Oh, you want a second opinion? Okay – you’re ugly, too.
Here is the plot of Forgetting Sarah Marshall in a coconut shell: ugly guy loses pretty girlfriend, but learns in the end he doesn’t want her anyway when he finds an even prettier girl to sleep with – after he drops trou about 25 times. Bring a pillow, let the yawning commence.
The PC nonsense is all over this film, like porno pix on a pervert’s PC. For those fuddy-duddies out there who cringe at the word “penis” and will write letters and send emails, know this; male genitalia is what this movie is all about, yet it is billed as a trendy comedy. This is what passes for funny these days. We’ve digressed from fart-jokes to jokes about where the fart came from. I always tell comedians that if you cannot do a bit without talking T&A or saying the “F” word every few seconds, then you have no talent and you have nothing worthwhile to say. And believe it or not, I saw young mothers in the theatre with their pre-teen children. Are you kiddin’ me?
Nudity is naaatural. It’s a beautiful thing to see pasty, saggy, bony or flabby skin, because that’s what Mother Nature (not God) intended you to see. Children should see it, too. Everyone is beauuutiful naked in his or her own way. Those who point out that some people are prettier than others are bad people. I know this, because Hollyweird tells me so.
For those who are new to my Politically Incorrect Movie Reviews, I must point out that Hollyweird always exempts itself from its own mandated PC’ness. For instance, Hollyweird consistently pushes the ideals of the above paragraph, yet Hollyweird itself is the most avid purveyor of better living through DuPont. They don’t call it the Silicone Valley for nothing. There’s more walking plastic on one block of Rodeo Drive than there is plastic in all the Mattel Factories combined.
Let me clear something up right here right now. I’m not against nudity. I’m not a puritan by any means. I just think there’s a time and place for everything. One drop trou scene would’ve probably been funny, but after the 5th or 6th time you see the same repulsive out-of-shape butt-nekkid torso, it gets annoying. To top it off, the main character’s name is Peter. Get it? Peter Bwaa-hahahaha! How funny is that? Hahahaha-zzzzzzzzz.
More PC pap permeates when Peter’s sister and brother-in-law confuse Indians and Hawaiians. Through a computer hookup, they do a mock Indian rain dance with a Hawaiian background. Two whitey’s whooping it up like Injuns with Oahu as a backdrop. Hahahaha-zzzzzzzzz. Then there’s the dumb-as-a-concrete-surfboard surfer dude; also a white guy. Add in a scene of sickly white Peter getting his tail kicked by a Hawaiian bartender, and you’ve got a Hollyweird PC trilogy.
White people just don’t know any better. Caucasians cannot tell the difference between non-whites and know nothing about them. Additionally, whitey doesn’t know how to fight, unless it’s an unfair fight where a hapless sacred minority is the recipient of rrrrraaacism. Or unless he’s Ah-nold Shwartzenegger, Bruce Willis or one of the various karate guys. I know this, because Hollyweird tells me so.
Imagine the screeching from the liberals if you reversed the roles. A big white bartender kicking a brown guys’ butt; two blacks mocking Indians and not knowing the difference between Indian and Hawaiian; the dumb-guy role-played by a gay Asian. The whining from the left would be deafening and the film would be ripped out of theatres and tossed on the shelf.
More PC pee-pee leaks out (get it? Hahahaha-zzzzzzzzz) as we see the obligatory Hollyweird Christian-bashing. Rock Star Aldous humps a nun in an airport and later we meet a nice young Christian couple who are sexually screwed up.
“She wants me to … well there’s a REASON God put the mouth up on the head! Ugh!” Darald, the innocent Christian newlywed exclaims in exasperation.
Later Rock Star Aldous shows Darald how to please a woman by simulating sex with a giant chess set. Hahahaha-zzzzzzzzz. This is one of many scenes that are supposed to be funny, but instead comes off as crude and somewhat cruel. When Darald reveals that he and his new bride were virgins when they wed, Rock Star Aldous is in shock.
“(Premarital) sex is against our religion,” states Darald. This of course is mocked, because in LaLa land, sex is the answer for everything. In Hollyweird’s mind, virginity is a handicap and only happens when some religious nutcase forces it on someone. No real, thinking, progressive person would ever make such a negative lifestyle choice on their own.
Bad Christian virginity! Bad bad bad!
Gee, Segel, why didn’t you have Rock Star Aldous hump a Rabbi? I think we all know the answer to that. In Hollyweird, Christianity is the only religion expected to tolerate such an insult.
Christians are either stupid or ignorant – and they are sexual misfits. There is no higher power than the benevolent Big Brother Guv’mint. God is the opiate of the easily led. God cannot save you, only man-made guv’mint can. I know this, because Hollyweird tells me so.
Forgetting Sarah Marshall does have some funny moments. There’s a funny sight gag when Peter stomps out on his girlfriend, only to end up in the room next door. Rock Star Aldous does a somewhat funny bit when he sings his corny lyrics while gyrating like a goof. But the real funny bit (the only genuinely funny bit) is all the way at the end of the film, where Peter finally gets it. He learns that his serious music is actually funny music and he figures out how to laugh at himself. So maybe that’s what Segel is trying to do here – impart the message to lighten up; if life hands you serious lemons, make funny lemonade … then stir that lemonade with your johnson. Hahahaha-zzzzzzzzz.
The scene at the end of the film is actually very creative. It’s a vampire puppet show – that’s right, you heard me. Too bad it comes too late to save the film. At this point we’ve already sat through 90 minutes of sophomoric caca-poo-poo jokes and seen two unattractive butt-nekkid men, who are the gayest looking straight guys ever to attempt a full frontal on film. This actually eclipses the gross-out-factor in the hot tub scene with Kathy Bates and Jack Nicholson in About Schmidt – and I thought that was a statistical impossibility.
Once again, there is plenty of fun-potential in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, but instead of making comedy the old fashioned way, you know, with funny dialogue and good writing – old archaic stuff like that – this flick exists merely to allow Segel to wave his wanker around. Ha! Wanker! Hahahaha-zzzzzzzzz.
Yeah yeah I know; not everyone on film is pretty and not only pretty faces win Oscars. The list of not-so-pretty Oscar winners ranges from the downright ugly to the merely plain. Ahk-tors such as Ernest Borgnine, Forrest Whitaker, Kathy Bates, Tommy Lee Jones, Jack Palance, etc. These folks are separated from Segel in one major respect: they can act.
Forgetting Sarah Marshall has 3 of the 5 Bachelor B’s; blood, breasts and bashes. No bombs and no beasts – well, except for the drop trou scenes, which are less beastly and more pathetic, really.
I think my movie date put it best. Seeking a feminine opinion of all this low quality mens-locker-room-humor, I asked her if she liked the movie and if the constant barrage of unattractive frontals bothered her. She said it didn’t bother her and the film had its moments, although altogether too brief.
So I asked her point blank, “Would you DO this guy?”
“Oh hell no.”
Put your pants on, son; sometimes comedy requires clothing and intellect. Personally, I think this Segel guy has a penis fetish. And dude, get to the gym.
Forgetting Sarah Marshall is not the problem. Remembering this film ten minutes after you leave the theatre may be the problem.
Bottom line, guys; never let your date pick the movie.
I give Forgetting Sarah Marshall one and a half Capitalist Dollar Signs (out of 5).