FRIENDSHIP. For a certain, ardent segment of the population, the mere image of Tim Robinson and Paul Rudd — the former clad in a sort of schlubbier, tan on tan, Walter White winter ensemble, the latter sporting a handlebar mustache and 1980s elementary schoolboy fashion-goals jacket — is enough to provoke a giggling fit subsiding in a feeling of calm, overall wellness. I am, of course, firmly of this camp; my lovely and long-suffering wife is not. She did, however, agree to join me for a matinee showing of Friendship, at the end of which she had little to say.
Days later, she would forward me an anonymous online response to a post about the movie, including insights such as: “This movie sucked so hard. … A fever dream for psychopaths.” She would go on to say, “I don’t know if I thought it sucked but I do question how this deep discomfort is enjoyable.” And therein lies the rubicon of Tim Robinson’s (to me) undeniable, singular appeal.
Friendship, the feature debut from writer/director Andrew DeYoung, trades heavily on the persona Robinson cultivates in his own written material (the sit-com Detroiters, the transcendent sketch series I Think You Should Leave), a kind-hearted, inept, rage-adjacent suburbanite with a penchant for miscue and escalation. His brand is discomfort, both for himself/his character and for us, the joyfully conspiratorial audience. In sketch and episodic doses, he’ll transition from simmering humiliation to roiling-boil rage with little provocation, festooning his own rapid-cycling emotionality with absurdist premises and motifs. His comedy lines itself up like a row of shot glasses brimming with possibility but promising, even boasting, a rapid-onset emotional hangover.
The challenge, then, even for the faithful, is to allow one of Robinson’s characters the opportunity for prolonged, quiet moments; the weeping clown left alone to think about what he’s done. And as risky as his own work can be, in terms of squandering the audience’s goodwill, the thought experiment of putting him through the meat-grinder of his own misunderstanding and maladroitness for 100 minutes — well, it’s clearly not for all tastes.
In a wintry, unnamed American state, Craig Waterman (Robinson) “enjoys” middling success as a corporate functionary in an advertising firm cohabited by noxious bros who don’t want him in on their jokes. His wife Tami (Kate Mara), a cancer survivor with a growing floral arrangement business and some attachment issues to both her firefighter ex-boyfriend and her and Craig’s teenage son, is obviously tired of his/their ennui.
One day, when yet another package is misdelivered to the Waterman address, Craig takes it upon himself to deliver it to the rightful recipient, at which point he falls hopelessly in platonic love. New neighbor Austin (Rudd), a television weatherperson in whose kind eyes Craig sees infinite possibility, offers an opportunity for camaraderie; Craig goes full Tim Robinson. And so, what began as a study in bedroom-community malcontent rapidly spirals into a grand, misbegotten attempt to capture that most elusive of prey: coolness.
It goes without saying that Craig is not, will not be cool, and neither will his fractured attempts to mimic what he sees in Austin, himself perhaps not quite as fully formed or self-assured as he might seem. Soon enough, he’s smoking cigarettes in frustration, buying drum kits and creating a frightening scenario that eventually requires first-responder intervention. It’s a car crash in slow motion, looped and distorted and engineered to maximize our discomfort — the experiment is a success.
While Friendship cannot rise to the mania of Robinson’s best sketches (even if that were possible, it would be inadvisable as no one would survive), it is smart enough to stretch out a canvas of comedic dread on which the fully, admirably committed cast can create moments of hideous, ridiculous hilarity. This effect is heightened by the work of director of photography Andy Rydzewski, whose camerawork builds an atmosphere of subdued surreality, a normal neighborhood nightmarishness punctuated by subtle smudges of psychedelia. The final impression is one of intention and completeness: Somehow DeYoung et al. successfully expand the unlikely star quality of Robinson, with all his frustration, sadness and charm, from the smallest of frames to a large format, allowing the comedy and tragedy of the piece to breathe in fully before each explosive exhalation.
The cinema of awkwardness is its own precious, delicate medium, wherein too much of any one impulse can easily spoil the intention. And while to some Friendship is as rotten as they come, I think it strikes the most delicate of balances, allowing us entry into a familiar but thankfully foreign world where stupid (ultimately too relatable) behavior results in painful, if comic, consequences. Like when Craig, having cavalierly eaten the wrong foraged mushrooms, vomits into his own giant soda. R. 100M. BROADWAY, MINOR.
John J. Bennett (he/him) is a movie nerd who loves a good car chase.
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For showtimes call: Broadway Cinema (707) 443-3456; Mill Creek Cinema 839-3456; Minor Theatre (707) 822-3456.
This article appears in Humboldt Crabs Baseball.