In a fever dream I'm at a palindrome party. Anna and Bob are there. Mom and Dad bring sis. Then some dude named Toby shows up -- uninvited. I awake, woozy and despondent, forced to admit that mankind's efforts to impose order on the universe are doomed to failure. I plant bluegrass but harvest fescue. I fly to Bombay but land in Mumbai. And I pay eight dollars to see a comedy called Good Luck Chuck that is in every way unfunny.
It's all part of life's descending arpeggio. From the tinkling high notes of youth to the basso profundo that thumps from the Grim Reaper's boom box, the one constant is an unpredictable melody. The cosmic jam band spews a helter-skelter mix of diminished chords that lodge in the small crawl space of the upper cranium.
Participation in civilization seemed simple at first. Men wanted chicks and women sought hubbies. In truth, people sought company for the holidays. But chicks can be hicks and hubbies get chubby and renaming Hanukkah “Chanukah” can't undo any of this. Culturally, we live below sea-level, and the levees of literature have been replaced by porous plasma screens incapable of holding back the murky waters of mediocrity.
Still, like a hacky-sack at a yard sale a movie needs a tag. Can we label Good Luck Chuck a comedy? I suppose. We still call a severed foot a foot, even though it lacks the utility of other feet. Good Luck Chuck is the severed foot of summer comedies, afoot at your local Cineplex until its fetid rottenness forces the distributor to lug it out back and lob it into the food court's dumpster.
When not reviewing films, Rocky Petralia can be found tackling the mysteries of life at HelloRocky.com
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