A&E Smith & Reeve at the movies: The 40 Year-Old Virgin Smith & Reeve at the Movies: The 40 Year-Old Virgin Reeve: Before we move on, I’d like to get one thing off my chest: I love Steve Carell. From his Daily Show days, to his odd turns in Anchorman and Bruce Almighty, he has always, for me, had something that no one else does. So the prospect of seeing him in a lead role made me quite pleased. When I saw the previews, however, I retracted. I thought this looked a little too much like just another DJ TOMMY THE TUNE TWISTER!!! Every Friday & Saturday Night gross-out film, devoid of any real comedic class. So what was this film: comedic gold from a real rising star, of just another gross-out buddy movie? Well, it was a little of column A, and little of column B. The film follows 40-year-old virgin Andy Sitzer. His coworkers try to teach him about lovin’, but Andy tries to learn all about love. To be honest, most of the situ- ations and story hooks in here are pretty tired. The plot is as predictable as they come and many of the jokes ate treading well-worn trails. Sexual awkwardness, body hair jokes, and trips to the bar make up some of the more predictable material. Where the film shines is in the absurd Carell-style situations that pop up occa- sionally. One of Andy’s friends, distressed over his long departed girlfriend, begins to drunkenly disrobe and film himself ona camera feeding to big screen TVs in an electronics store...while on the job. Steve’s lines and delivery are solid throughout, and he truly is the center of the film. Not the funniest movie of the year, but a surefire laugher. I’d call it a good solid renter. Smith: After seeing previews for this movie, I was not impressed. I figured it was going to be another stupid comedy with another stupid plot. Although I thought to myself that even though Steve Carell is one of the funni- est comedic actors out there right now, a film about a 40- yeat-old virgin did not appeal to me. But in the end, it was surprisingly funny. I actually found myself, more than once, laughing out loud in the theatre. More often than not, even. At one point I even laughed so hard I choked on my Coke. It plays itself off differently than one might think, and often had some pretty clever jokes. And Steve Carell definite- ly did not disappoint. The movie begins with Carell’s character working at an electronics store. He gets invited to a poker game with some people from work and while sitting around the table, they begin to talk about women and sex. When asked about his experience, he awkwardly tries to pretend he knows what he is talking about. They discov- et his secret and quickly vow to find him a woman. After much hilarious advice, they take him to a bar to test what he has learned. A few drunken girls later and this advice proves to be unsuccessful. Somehow, later on, he manages to get a phone number from a beautiful lady. Nervous about telling her, they pursue a relationship and he tries to find a way to tell the woman of his, “problem.” It’s a sweet, hilarious, and simple film that doesn’t rely on anything but the script and perform- ance of the cast. For a movie I had no desire to see whatsoever, it certainly made me laugh. On a scale of Chairman of the Board (the Carrot Top Movie) to Monty Python and the Holy Grail, | give it an Anchorman. Hell-A Reflections on the City of Angels Michael Shu, The Link (Concordia University) Montreal (CUP)—-When I was eight years old, our familial infatuation with all things Disney got the best of us, and having already conquered Orlando, Florida, we headed to sunny California during my second grade Christmas break. Most of the trip itself is a blur, but the most horrifying memory was that we ate at Denny’s every morning for a week. Apart from those monstrous stacks of flapjacks and the Disney-mania, the most fervent memory remained the Hollywood culture sprayed all over the place, ranging from the repetitive billboards for big releases (back in day it was Schindlers List) to the “fake” chatacters hanging around in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater. Upon my return this summer, not much has changed. The layer of smog that looms over Los Angeles has quietly thickened over time and the palm trees are as tall as they ever have been. Spielberg’s Holocaust has made way for The 40 Year-Old Virgin, but Catwoman is still prancing around, posing with Japanese tourists for five-dollar Polaroids. The only difference is that the little diners that used to make up the landscape behind her have been taken over by Hooters and American Apparel. It’s hard not to succumb to the charm of the ostensible world of filmmaking, especially when the weather is so nice. No, really, it is. On average, it rains two weeks a year—and that’s when it’s a really bad year. For a Montrealer like me, it’s pleasantly strange to wake up in the morning and not have to stick my nose out the window to figure out what I’m going to wear. And so, by default, you end up waking up with nothing to complain about. It’s a beautiful day and it will stay like that. As you walk down the street, people greet and smile at you; if you’re walking your dog, you're set. It’s idyllic, a bit like in the movies. The industry is local here, and everything in Hollywood seems within such a close reaching dis- tance (like how we might see the guy who’s hawking us from Bell ExpressVu in the gym locker room sctatching his crotch). It’s no wonder that people come to the land of the stars to try to make it big and end up staying their whole lives; the smell of a big break is a mirage of anticipation. You can recog- nize struggling actors on the street; they’re a dime a dozen. They’re always alert, knowing (or at least hop- ing) that today might be the day. On their way to the supermarket, in their cars (because, no matter how poor you ate, you must have a car to get around), at the ATM—these Hollywoodians are everywhere. It kinda stinks. I guess the most accurate way of describing the City of Angels is to say that success seems like a viable turnout. Everything around screams it. There is naty a street corner that doesn’t advertise the possi- bility of it. The illusion of Hollywood is seductive in its reality. Dreams grounded in everyday life, waiting to happen to someone. For a second, you reach out with the hopes of grasping a little something; and as you pull back a big handful of nothing, you’re already scheming up ways to try again. It’s like the best plots of the very films that get the accolades.