Friendship

Making new friends as an adult is difficult. Your school years are defined by going to the same place as the same people who are about the same age as you every day, making finding people you relate to and enjoy talking to almost an accident. If you went to college, you likely even lived close to each other, creating ample opportunity for bumping into acquaintances, which leads to conversation and little adventures, further lending itself to natural bonds. But once removed from that environment, it takes effort. Work relationships aren't quite the same, owing to the vast gulfs in age and power dynamics. Having kids can bring you into contact with other parents, but your responsibilities hinder the ability to sit and talk for hours. Social sports leagues or other regular gatherings at least ensure you're with people who share some set of interests as yourself, but tend to meet less frequently. On top of that, American life has seen the slow disappearance of third places, a trend accelerated by the pandemic. If you don't live in a city, all of this is made worse; at least within one, the greater density of people leads to more happening in the community, and you likely can walk (or bike) between your home and some hang out spots.

While I'm admittedly describing my personal frustrations, the same applies to Craig Waterman (Tim Robinson). Granted, he's far more of a sad sack than I am. I don't spend evenings staring at my phone in my favorite lounge chair, excitedly talking about how the new Marvel "is supposed to be absolutely nuts" (a perfect joke for 2025), or cheerfully discussing my job at a company trying to increase the addictiveness of mobile apps. The ladder absurd but all too real job description is wonderfully deployed as a runner throughout, a place in the film for humor and small vignettes which provide deeper character insight while mirroring the rest of his quickly deteriorating life.

The movie's main concern is his burgeoning friendship with Austin (Paul Rudd), although it's played more like an immature romance. Well, at least from Craig's perspective. For a relatively normal, middle-class, suburban guy, Austin seems impossibly cool (and not just because he's the rare character who shares my name). He's the evening weatherman, fronts a punk band, and dabbles in urban exploration. Craig can barely be bothered to get riled up about his wife's frequent late dinners with her ex-husband Devon (Josh Segarra), so of course he's taken with someone so quick to put himself out there. Austin reciprocates, and even has some things to learn from Craig about being direct, which lands him a sweet promotion to morning weatherman. But as with most fiery relationships, when the sudden yet inevitable awkward break-up comes, the one being dumped doesn't know how to return to a reality of being alone. Craig has been shown a taste of comradery and closeness that has been sorely lacking in his life (despite his marriage), and he's not ready to give it up.

While that sounds like the setup for a horror movie, this is Tim Robinson, the I Think You Should Leave guy. His gift for physical comedy and ability to play defeated and exasperated are second to none. So even as he becomes more and more unhinged, making up excuses to knock on Austin's door and even breaking into his house (allegedly), he reads as far more desperate than threatening. All the while, he's absolutely hilarious, deploying his own unique brand of cringe comedy. You're unlikely to bust a gut, but will certainly let out a ton of guffaws from a combination of delight, disbelief, and confusion. Few comedians in the modern era could get a film released in theaters that includes a toad induced psychedelic trip in which they go to Subway, ask their former friend to make them a sandwich (complete with selecting the bread), just wait around for a bit, and then it's over. And then get more mileage out of the joke by their wild annoyance at that being it.

If that description seems out of place, it's because the seams of his sketch comedy background frequently show through, despite only starring in the film - it was written and directed by Andrew DeYoung. Nonetheless, while it never drops the narrative, there are quite a few scenes which stand alone, little comedic ideas they wanted to express despite breaking the flow of the story. They are amusing, sure, but they end up highlighting the many dramatic beats which are never really fleshed out. There's something about an uncomfortable closeness between his wife Tami (Kate Mara) and her son Steven (Jack Dylan Grazer) that never goes anywhere. Austin's struggles at work are underexplored and underutilized, Craig's marital problems are only ever background flavor, and everything with Devon serves are more of a plot device than an part of their world.

In the main narrative, this manifests as things happening for no real reason. For example, the incident which precipitates his and Austin's breakup isn't hinted at before, nor are there any signs of it afterward. Same for the aforementioned break-in. Each event serves a purpose in the script, but that's just it: you can feel them originating from a writer's hand, not the character's head. For a comedy so driven by its plot, that sloppiness is incredibly distracting, occasionally taking away from your ability to get into the humor.

I genuinely appreciated what this was trying to do in its portrayal of the insane behavior of lonely dudes, never letting them off the hook for a second - not only is Tami leaving Craig, but Austin's wife seems sick of the whole ordeal. It's acknowledging the reality of the situation, calling out how Craig is at least somewhat responsible for his isolation, and making clear that both of them are ultimately sad, broken people who are ultimately struggling with their own self-image and self-respect. There's a lot of meat on that bone, even as it doesn't always cohere as intended. On top of that, the whole thing is legitimately funny, albeit in a low-key way? The mixture is quite potent, and unlike anything else you're likely to see at the cinema this year.