The people who pay attention to weekend box office reports usually have some financial stake in what comes out on top. While I have zero prospect of gaining monetarily from the success of director Paul Feig’s raunchy, smart Bridesmaids, I will nonetheless watch the weekend numbers with bated breath. I’m vested because I want to know how America feels about women both defecating on screen and discussing it. This might be a turning point in feminism and comedy, provided that both sexes can embrace it.
The defecation in question happens shortly after a girl’s luncheon at a Brazilian dive. The women have gathered to discuss Lillian’s upcoming wedding. The impoverished maid of honor, Annie , chose the restaurant for its good value, without considering that food poisoning might also be on the menu. Lillian and her five attendants then innocently repair to a fancy bridal salon to try on expensive dresses. Sweat beads form. Innards rumble and then give way. It’s gross and uproarious, but also beautifully choreographed; the image of swanlike Rudolph, swathed in white, sinking down onto a street to relieve herself is unforgettable.
But this very Hangover-style wedding party moment is not exactly in keeping with the movie as a whole. Although wrapped in slapstick and sweetened with romance, Bridesmaids is at its core a shrewd examination of female insecurity. And for once, the focus is not entirely on insecurity as it relates to the opposite sex. Annie’s orbit does include a cad named Ted and a quietly swoon-worthy cop, Rhodes With the exception of Byrne and Hamm, everyone in this cast looks like someone you could expect to run into at the supermarket or maybe Curves. “It’s so nice to see average people in a movie,” noted my companion as we exited the theater. I asked if her husband, who will almost certainly see The Hangover Part II, would pay a ticket for Bridesmaids. “Eh,” she said. “I don’t know.” He should go—Bridesmaids might be all about women, but the laughs are universal.
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