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Writer David Dorfman
Writer David Dorfman
Writer David Dorfman
The incident: His repeated polite requests for a headset to watch the in-flight movie
are absurdly mistaken for aggression by a flight crew with post-9/11 jitters. The
missed opportunity: The concept's punchline should have been that he really is a
rage-a-holic and the calm version of events we see is his skewed perspective of
normalcy.
Instead, the picture sticks with the notions that typically dim-bulb Sandler (insert
empty-eyed double-take head-cocks here) really is a misunderstood nice guy, and
the actor fails to find a single genuine laugh in the story's goofball gimmick -- which
is that his nutzo court-appointed therapist (Jack Nicholson, volume turned up to 11)
moves in with him and makes his life a living hell.
Sandler goes to Nicholson's group therapy sessions where sight-gag caricatures are
rolled out for cheap rim shots. There's the queeny vato (Luis Guzman) who beat up
his boss, the high-strung war veteran (John Turturro in hyperactive bug-eyed mode)
and the bisexual porn slut couple who aren't there for laughs but just to make out
from time to time, insuring a teenage-boy-friendly PG-13 and deliberately skirting the
R that would keep that target audience from getting in.
Nicholson takes over Sanlder's life, tapping his phones, throwing away his CDs,
disallowing caffeine, demanding his eggs over-easy and trying to spoon Sandler in
bed (there's no couch to sleep on). But Nicholson overshoots any potential humor
here. His character is so grating that he's even harder for a viewer to tolerate than
he is for Sandler, who is at least on the same side of the screen and thus has the
option of strangling the guy.
The jokes are transparent, the behavior is contradictory and the ultimate "surprise"
resolution is not only nonsensical, it's insulting to think Sandler's character wouldn't
be finally truly outraged by having it revealed to him.
Packed with pointlessly crazy cameos (Rudy Giuliani at a ballgame, Bobby Knight
and John McEnroe in therapy, Woody Harrelson as a transvestite hooker) that seem
to be more important to the director than congruous character development, "Anger
Management" is the kind of simplistic movie in which everyone's problems are
solved not because of any emotional effort or change of heart, but simply because
the orchestra swells, the cymbals crash, the hero kisses the girl and the credits roll.
Many, many people have problems expressing their anger. You may
have been given lots of messages as a child that you were supposed
to be nice, kind, and sweet all the time. Or perhaps any anger
expression was not tolerated and punished in some way. Messages
like, “Don't you talk back to me!” accompanied by a swat, is not
only telling the child his or her angry feelings are "bad", it is
punitive of the child's attempt to express the anger. It is also very
confusing, because the child is being shown how the parent handles
anger and at the same time told not to handle his or her anger in
the same manner. So the child often learns to bottle up his or her
anger in an effort to be a "good child" and avoid punishment.
Bottling up your anger, allowing it to build until you explode, or
becoming your own angry critic of yourself and others, are not the
most beneficial methods for handling anger. Learning how to be
self-supportive and assertive with your anger are the most healthful
ways to deal with your naturally-occurring emotion.
Don't ask the other person to change his or her feelings. They have
a right to their feelings just as much as you have to yours. Ask
directly and specifically for something that will help you feel
satisfied or less angry.
The incident: His repeated polite requests for a headset to watch the in-flight movie
are absurdly mistaken for aggression by a flight crew with post-9/11 jitters. The
missed opportunity: The concept's punchline should have been that he really is a
rage-a-holic and the calm version of events we see is his skewed perspective of
normalcy.
Instead, the picture sticks with the notions that typically dim-bulb Sandler (insert
empty-eyed double-take head-cocks here) really is a misunderstood nice guy, and
the actor fails to find a single genuine laugh in the story's goofball gimmick -- which
is that his nutzo court-appointed therapist (Jack Nicholson, volume turned up to 11)
moves in with him and makes his life a living hell.
Sandler goes to Nicholson's group therapy sessions where sight-gag caricatures are
rolled out for cheap rim shots. There's the queeny vato (Luis Guzman) who beat up
his boss, the high-strung war veteran (John Turturro in hyperactive bug-eyed mode)
and the bisexual porn slut couple who aren't there for laughs but just to make out
from time to time, insuring a teenage-boy-friendly PG-13 and deliberately skirting the
R that would keep that target audience from getting in.
Nicholson takes over Sanlder's life, tapping his phones, throwing away his CDs,
disallowing caffeine, demanding his eggs over-easy and trying to spoon Sandler in
bed (there's no couch to sleep on). But Nicholson overshoots any potential humor
here. His character is so grating that he's even harder for a viewer to tolerate than
he is for Sandler, who is at least on the same side of the screen and thus has the
option of strangling the guy.
George Eliot