Friendship Would Have Worked Better as a Three-Minute Sketch

Tim Robinson, the former Saturday Night Live writer and performer who now co-stars with Paul Rudd in the prickly cringe comedy Friendship, is probably a genius. Both here and in his popular Netflix sketch series I Think You Should Leave, he specializes in a kind of auteurist awkwardness, playing the zonked-out but subliminally angry guy who has precisely the wrong quip for every occasion, whose facial expressions never quite match the sentiments coming from his mouth, whose rubbery body language seems to follow rhythms beamed from another planet. I Think You Should Leave is theater of the absurd broken into small bites of aggro-humor: Robinson as a guy who gets caught looking at a “nude egg” on his work computer, as a witless nerd who asks his barber for a Bryan Cranston haircut and gets a springer spaniel ‘do instead, as a low-rent stage performer who specializes in gentle Charlie Chaplin-style comedy, only to blow his top when frat boys heckle him at his shows. It makes little sense on paper, but Robinson creates a believable, if bizarre, microworld for each character. He’s like Zippy the Pinhead for the modern age, a naive weirdo traveler out of step with the world.

But how much Tim Robinson is too much? Maybe the exact amount you get in Friendship, the feature debut of writer-director Andrew DeYoung. Robinson stars as Craig Waterman, a regular suburban guy with a boring job, a charming florist wife who’s losing interest in him (Kate Mara), and a teenage son (Jack Dylan Grazer) whose indifference borders on hostility. Craig slouches through the world in schlumpy mud-colored gear. The guys at work tolerate his misfit ways, but just barely. There’s a vacuum in Craig’s life, and he doesn’t even know it—until groovy TV weatherman Austin Carmichael (Rudd) moves into a house down the street and sends clear signals that he’d like to be Craig’s friend. They meet, and talk a little, when Craig trundles over to drop off a misdelivered package. Austin’s jaunty send-off—”Stay curious, Craig Waterman!”—puts a tentative spring in Craig’s step.

Read more: Why Men Struggle With Friendship

The friendship takes off, thanks to Austin’s congenial bravado, which Craig envies and seeks to imitate. Austin plays guitar in a punk band—it’s not even that punky, but Craig thinks it’s the coolest thing he’s ever seen. Austin leads Craig on a late-night adventure through a twisty-turny aqueduct, ending up, illegally, in city hall after-hours. Austin doesn’t even seem to register his witless neighbor’s lack of social skills until Craig punches his lights out—supposedly in fun—during a guys’ night get-together. That’s the tipping point, and Austin breaks up the bromance, leaving Craig lost and angry and eager to prove himself as a cool dude worth hanging out with.

Friendship hinges on the sad truth that it’s hard for men to make friends, which may be why the film’s earliest scenes—in which Austin expresses genuine interest in hanging out with Craig, his social ineptitude more a curiosity than a liability—work best. At first, Austin either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care how maladroit Craig is, and that challenges us to see him in a similar light, as a sweet but goofy guy who just doesn’t know how to buy pants that fit right. But as Craig’s desperation escalates, Robinson becomes less funny and more wearying. Craig is axed from his job when he goes ballistic in a big client meeting. His wife leaves him. His sad-sack woes pile up. It’s not that Robinson isn’t subtle enough; there are moments when his inane, gap-toothed smile nearly breaks your heart, even though, in a small, uncomfortable way, it also invites your contempt. The problem, really, is that the Tim Robinson of the three-or four-minute sketches of I Think You Should Leave is just the right amount of Tim Robinson—at least in this particular mode. It’s why we drink liqueurs, digestifs, espresso in tiny glasses or cups. The more intense the elixir, the less we can handle at once. Sometimes that goes for comic genius too.