Let me ask you a personal question: have you ever eaten a cream puff? They’re light, wonderful, and delicious while you’re eating them, but ultimately unsubstantial. Wanderlust is the cinematic equivalent of a cream puff. Sometimes that’s all you need.
Wanderlust features Jennifer Aniston and Paul Rudd as George and Linda, two characters as bland as their names. The married couple are amped-up New Yorkers looking for success, but when Linda’s documentary about penguins with testicular cancer gets rejected by HBO (who wouldn’t want to watch that masterpiece?) the two must abandon their costly “micro-loft” and set out like pioneers into this economic wasteland we call 2012.
Several wrong turns lead the pair to a dark country road where they serendipitously encounter a well-endowed hippie nudist taking a stroll. As the audience around me roared with mirth at the sight of the man jogging, it struck me what comedic gold trouser snakes can be.
Also, can I get a round of applause for the increase of male nudity in the films of the past decade? From Michael Fassbender’s full-frontal “talent” in Shame, to Jason Segel’s nude breakdown in Forgetting Sarah Marshall to and Kermit’s bold exposure in The Muppets, it seems that straight ladies of the world are finally getting their share of cinematic eye-candy. Progress!
Anyway, said nudist leads George and Linda to Elysium, a commune so irony free and idyllic that you may start to think the couple have time-warped back to the 60s.The population of this wonderland consists of hysterical one-note characters who rub their fingers together as a form of “less-aggressive clapping” and give loving/creepy massages to anything that moves. George and Linda are so charmed by the chilled-out bliss of life at Elysium that they decide to temporarily give up their Blackberries for organic blueberries.
There are truth circles! Skinny-dipping! Who wouldn’t want to move in?
While the supporting cast is great, one complaint I have is Rudd’s inconsistent portrayal of George. One scene he’s whining about the vegan coffee tasting like goat’s feet, and the next he’s dancing freely with a bong in one hand and a didgeridoo in the other. He sips the hallucinogenic Kool-Aid when it would be so much more entertaining for us if he would chug it.
There is, however, one magnificent scene where George is psyching himself up in the mirror for a “free-love” session and the resulting monologue is the filthiest, funniest tirade I’ve ever heard – when he addresses his schlong in a deranged Southern accent I violently choked on my smuggled wine cooler. This scene proves that Rudd has the ability to be a comedic double-rainbow and Wanderlust suffers when it forces him to keep a poker face.
Aniston, as per usual, is not the most interesting actress, but she’s looser than usual in this film – especially when she embraces poncho-wearing. However, I really don’t think that in a commune like this a woman’s eyebrows and legs would be waxed so neatly as hers are.
Despite a few momentum lags and a lazy romantic ending, Wanderlust fulfilled my desire for an irreverent comedy and I’d recommend it to any granola-types looking for a laugh at their own expense. If you want to see something along the same lines but more transcendent and fearlessly bonkers, go rent 2001’s Wet Hot American Summer. Trust me.
