John Oliver on America's National Language

From Then to Now

David Denby has a great analysis of Knocked Up and other contemporary Hollywood Sex (Romantic) comedies.

Also see his review of Ratatouille for more great writing about film.

Full text of Denby's review here:

“There’s something about humans,” muses Remy (Patton Oswalt), the French country rat who is the hero of the animated gastronomic marvel “Ratatouille.” He goes on: “They taste. . . . They discover.” What Remy doesn’t say, though it’s implicit in his attitude, is that humans and rats are brothers under the fur: they alone, among all God’s creatures, eat everything. But Remy has his own version of the omnivore’s dilemma: he’s afflicted with a refined palate. Refusing the usual repast of garbage, he realizes that in order to eat well he needs to cook. “Ratatouille” starts out as a minor conceit about a rat who turns himself into a connoisseur, and becomes a gripping comic tale about the implacability of an artist. Washed into a sewer, Remy lands in Paris, and makes himself known to a young man, Linguini (Lou Romano), who has inherited a famous restaurant but cannot so much as crack an egg. Quietly, he rides under Linguini’s toque and pulls tufts of his hair, controlling his chopping and sauce-stirring techniques like a master puppeteer. A menacing challenge lies ahead: a visit from the annihilating restaurant critic Anton Ego (Peter O’Toole).

The animation gang at Pixar don’t settle for goosing old fairy tales and shining up media-weary jokes, as the DreamWorks folks do in the “Shrek” series. They create each movie afresh, and some of their productions, especially this one and “The Incredibles,” both written and directed by Brad Bird, have reached heights of invention, speed, and wit not seen in animation since the work done by Chuck Jones at Warner Bros. in the nineteen-forties. In “Ratatouille,” the level of moment-by-moment craftsmanship is a wonder. Keeping the space clear and coherent may seem an odd thing to praise in an animated film, but one of the marvellous things about “Ratatouille” is how well we come to understand the geography of the kitchen in which much of the movie takes place.

The point of view jumps to the top of cabinets and scampers beneath ovens and counters, but we always know where we are in relation to the rest of the kitchen and why it matters where Remy goes or doesn’t go. When he calls in his family and friends to help out in a crisis, the animals, who need to be sanitized, emerge from a dishwasher in a puff of steam and get assigned to their stations as sauciers, sous-chefs, and the like, where they crawl up ladles to the rims of soup tureens and send mushrooms cascading into a waiting boeuf en daube. Our knowledge of the kitchen makes the rapid-fire gags much funnier. Bird has turned disgust into a celebration of efficiency, and, on the fly, he offers the most detailed cooking lore and the most ardent celebration of the chef as artist since “Babette’s Feast.” Toques off to Mr. Bird. At a time when many Americans have so misunderstood the ethos of democracy that they hate being outclassed by anyone, when science is disdained as dangerous and expertise as élitism, this animation artist, working in a family medium, has made two brilliant movies that unequivocally champion excellence. “Ratatouille” suggests that some omnivores are better than others. There’s nothing to do but get over it.