An Expected Bundle of Joy

Knocked Up

(R)

originally published June 6, 2007

Katherine Heigl and Seth Rogen

Between Waitress and new release Knocked Up, having kids seems to be the last thing on the mind of 2007’s modern woman. When Alison Scott’s (Katherine Heigl, radiant in a star-making turn) pregnancy is confirmed by the first in an uproarious line of creepy gynos, she bursts into tears. However, Alison, like Keri Russell’s Jenna in Waitress, comes to terms with her with child-ness over two riotous hours, with the help of - and despite - reluctant partner and eternal man-child Ben (Seth Rogen, the secret weapon of “Freaks and Geeks” and “Undeclared”) and a neurotic sister (Leslie Mann, wife of writer-director Judd Apatow) who is unhappily happily married to an emotionally burnt-out husk (Paul Rudd, whose comedic genius I continue to extol). With Knocked Up, Apatow has refined his near perfect formulation of bawdy sex comedy and sincere romantic comedy, tested in The 40-Year-Old Virgin, as he mocks the ups and downs of pregnancy, courtship and marriage on the way to a heartfelt happily ever after. An insanely strong comedy writer, Apatow’s undeclared strength is his talent for assembling unsung comedic ensembles of which Woody Allen should be jealous. Rogen and Rudd bounce off each other like a profane Abbott and Costello, while an assortment of freaky, geeky costars (Jason Segel, Jay Baruchel, Jonah Hill, Martin Starr), amateurs (Apatow’s own scene-thieving children, Iris and Maude) and well-worn pros (Harold Ramis and Joanna Kerns) mop up the laugh spillover.

Taking what many see as a nightmarish situation, an unexpected pregnancy (I wonder how many couples in the audience squirmed just a bit as they remembered past close calls), and finding the comedy and the romance in it, Apatow has delivered a healthy, funny movie. The flick’s got heart and moxie and all that other old-fashioned stuff missing from modern Hollywood’s committee-driven comedies. Knocked Up may not be swift enough to be screwball and its foulmouthed onscreen buddies might have found the old production code more than a hair more restrictive than the late Jack Valenti’s ratings system; still, I believe Apatow, locked in mortal combat with Kevin Smith for the right to inherit Hollywood’s porcelain throne of comedy, to be the next descendant of Billy Wilder, whose cynical sex comedies contributed more genetically to the intelligently immature, derisively witty Knocked Up than Porky’s did. Of course, Apatow’s cynics have a hundred times the heart - and twice as credible motivations - as those of bitter old Billy; however, a bit of Wilder’s visual intuition wouldn’t hurt his television-trained heir. If Apatow keeps making films as disrespectfully delightful as this one, somebody with actual clout might someday agree with me.

Drew Wheeler