depravity and gravity have always got a grasp on me.

Perhaps the surprise hit of the fall film season would be the comedy sleeper Role Models, a movie Boyfriend and I decided upon for a rainy afternoon matinee.  Sure, the trailer looked amusing, and sure, I knew it would appeal to a certain crowd, having projected it to perform well at the box office, but perhaps not so well with the critics. Despite the pact that Boyfriend and I made a pact to never, ever, under threat of death by middle schoolers and soccer moms, visit a movie theatre on the perilous weekend, we made the trek in the name of mindless entertainment and stadium seating. Unsurprisingly, the theatre was packed to the gunnels like a sardine can. Our cooperative clairvoyance foresaw a bevy of cheesy, trailer-hitched jokes which would induce thoughtless belly laughs and cat calls throughout our collective audience (really, has no one seen a commercial for this movie before?). However, to our utmost surprise, we were the ones unable to control our laughter as a potential dud transformed into an uproariously good time.

The comedy’s dual protagonists, Danny and Wheeler (respectively, Paul Rudd and Seann William Scott) are sentenced to community service at Sturdy Wings, a Big-Brothers-Big-Sisters-esque program founded by a former crack addict (an obscenely hilarious Jane Lynch – honestly, is she ever not funny?).  But what makes this film truly work is the relationship with their subsequent antagonists, also known as their “littles” (Christopher Mintz-Plasse and Bobb’e J. Thompson).  The chemistry conducted between the four is undoubtedly golden; not a single one falls dead weight or outshines the rest.  It’s perfectly balanced writing with a candid hilarity, polished off with spot-on delivery and rolling farce.  Co-written by David Wain of Stella fame and Rudd himself, it incarnates moments from The Baxter and Wet Hot American Summer and merges them with the likes of Superbad and Knocked Up.  Sure, the first thirty minutes were pitch-perfect for the trailer, but the subsequent hour delivers heart and prolific amounts of poignant profanity by the truckload, which somehow seem to work well together.  I’d say it was even worth the wrath of the soccer moms.