Bless his heart: David Denby of The New Yorker remains one of the few gainfully employed film critics of our age with the insight, intellectual heft, movie-history savvy and graceful writing style to produce provocative and engrossing essays such as this one on the current state of romantic comedies. Mind you, it’s the sort of lengthy piece that is best savored away from the computer monitor: You should print out the article, or maybe even buy the magazine, and page through it at your leisure, perhaps while Mozart wafts from your stereo and a glass of fine wine is within easy reach. But, then again, since he spends so much time focused on Knocked Up – about which Denby expresses profoundly mixed feelings – perhaps you could substitute an ice-cold beer or a tightly-wrapped doobie for the vino.
BTW: According to early weekend box-office reports, Knocked Up (which, Denby rightly notes, “feels like one of the key movies of the era — a raw, discordant equivalent of The Graduate forty years ago”) has grossed enough to remain in the top ten for the eighth consecutive week. Not shabby at all.
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