Pineapple Express

In theaters.

Part of me wants to just say “I’m not the target audience” and leave it at that. Yes, producer Judd Apatow’s crowd turns out work that can be broadly appealing, witty, even insightful, (though not always, by any stretch), but let’s not kid ourselves: first and foremost, these are movies made by, for, and about overgrown man-boys. Not being an overgrown man-boy myself, maybe I don’t completely get it.

I don’t think there’s necessarily anything wrong with that: comedy, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. What frustrates me about Pineapple Express is that it is to my taste—most of the time. And than along comes a gag or plot turn so discordant and unappealing that I feel as though I’ve been physically pushed out of a circle. After a moment, I swallow my distaste and start laughing again, only to again encounter one of those repellent stink bombs. And each time the movie pushes me away, I become less eager to rejoin it, less certain that I want to keep this company.