Now showing: Sweet, sweet vengeance.
No, not Liam Neeson’s latest brooding thriller.
I’m talking about a movie that was once mercilessly hammered by critics and is now being re-released nationally for seven days. A triumphant return to the big screen.
Usually such an event is reserved for “Lawrence of Arabia” or “Star Wars” or “Spirited Away” — not a flop.
The underdog victor this time, our Wacky Balboa, is “Wet Hot American Summer,” the cult summer-camp comedy that’s celebrating its 25th anniversary.
A quarter century ago, nobody would’ve predicted a future feting of the deranged satire’s legacy. It was supposed to be forgotten. Wiped from the cultural consciousness. Like many dinky Sundance premieres, “Wet Hot” seemed destined for obscurity. Reviewers, at the peak of their power and influence, gave the little indie a drubbing.
My Post predecessor Lou Lumenick awarded the flick, starring young Paul Rudd, Amy Poehler and Bradley Cooper, two stars and declared, “What the world doesn’t need now is an homage to Bill Murray’s summer-camp hit ‘Meatballs’.”
Roger Ebert was even meaner. He gave it a measly one star and wrote a dismissive takedown in the style of the song “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh.”
“Wow I hate it something fierce – except the astrophysicist David Hyde Pierce,” the Chicago Sun-Times critic rhymed.
Not that RottenTomatoes.com is a scientific measure, but “Wet Hot” shares the same score as last year’s reviled live-action “Snow White” — 39%. Hard to picture that Disney dud ever being revived.
And yet here “Wet Hot” is again selling tickets and getting laughs.
This tussle of taste between critics and mainstream audiences is actually quite normal — frustratingly for some — especially when it comes to comedy.
Many popular, hilarious favorites, noticeably in the 1990s and aughts, were smacked down as unsophisticated, stupid and gross upon release. You know, that old critical chestnut — “sophomoric.”
Ebert called “Step Brothers” with Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly, “the feel-bad comedy of the year.”
“Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me,” Mike Myers’ second James Bond sendup, grossed a giant $312 million worldwide but has a full-splat 54% on RottenTomatoes.
The films of Adam Sandler — “Happy Gilmore” and “The Waterboy,” in particular — are a frequent battlezone of the proletariat versus the bourgeoisie. The people love Sandler, and the critics love to rip him to shreds.
And the ire of my whiny crew of pretentious shut-ins isn’t limited to dude flicks. “The First Wives Club” has a low 50% on RT, despite its enduring fandom and the well-regarded cast of Bette Midler, Diane Keaton and Goldie Hawn.
Actually, film comedies wisely tend to take the advice of Lesley Gore’s anthemic song from that movie: “Don’t tell me what to do! Don’t tell me what to say!”
I’m not one to believe that there is a right and wrong when it comes to criticism. Except with me, of course. I am always right.
However, it is safe to say that comedy appears to be the genre where we critics matter the least. Reviews of these titles, in retrospect, often read as quaint and bitchy.
To be said in the cadence of Jerry Seinfeld: What’s the deal with funny movies?
Well, for one, sadness and tragedy are universal, whereas humor is highly subjective. My favorite comedian is likely not yours. I reviewed a show the other day that I laughed at all the way through. A friend of mine went a week later and didn’t so much as chuckle once.
The other more perhaps important factor is age. Critically panned comedies are often rescued by high school students who relish watching ridiculous and inappropriate material in their parents’ basement.
“Wet Hot American Summer” doesn’t have legs because of 60-year-old elitist writers who went to Dartmouth. Some teen rented it at Blockbuster and showed it to his friends.
Really that is my favorite path to success. Not Oscars, not glowing notices, not prestige — organic fan enthusiasm from viewers discovering a film on accident.
Because ultimately it’s the public, not critics, who decides what will be a wet, hot American hit.
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