I’m at the Midwestern premiere of “Friendship,” and I’m struggling to find a seat. The Michigan Theater’s cavernous main auditorium is packed with moviegoers buzzing with excited energy. As I pick my way through the crowd, I double-check my ticket. “Am I in the right spot?” I am. I shrug. People are more excited about “Friendship” than I expected.
I hadn’t found the film’s early promo particularly compelling. Billed as a sparse buddy comedy with a shot-on-film “indie” look, “Friendship” seems like the most basic sort of A24 film. There was only one thing motivating me to actually go watch it: Tim Robinson (“An American Pickle”). A huge figure in the sketch comedy world, Robinson is a pioneer of surreal, self-flagellating comedy. Although he’s got two highly acclaimed TV shows under his belt, “Friendship” is his first leading role in a feature film. I was determined to see “Friendship” simply because I’m a fan of Robinson. In my head, my interest in him was pretty anomalous. I mean, how popular could this guy be?
As I wedge myself into an open seat near the front of the theater, I’m beginning to realize that Robinson is, in fact, that popular. Before I get the chance to fully consider this realization, the lights dim and “Friendship” flickers to life. The packed audience falls silent.
“Friendship” opens on a solemn note. The first person to appear on screen is Tami (Kate Mara, “The Dutchman”). She’s quietly recounting her cancer recovery to a small support group. The theater is totally silent, and we’re all holding our breath. This isn’t funny, right? Then, the film cuts to the person to Tami’s right. It’s Robinson. The camera is tight on his face. He’s pale, graying at the temples, big ears and he almost looks pained. The silence stretches. Finally, he winces. The audience erupts into laughter.
If you’re unfamiliar with Robinson’s particular brand of comedy, you’d likely be confused. In a vacuum, that slight wince isn’t particularly funny — just awkward. But within Robinson’s broader body of work, it’s hilarious. Robinson has built both a career and a cult following out of painful awkwardness, using it as a vehicle for a wide variety of absurd comedic vignettes. His first cringing wince in “Friendship” is classic Robinson. Immediately, the film makes its intentions clear: Robinson is making his movie star debut, and he’s doing it with the full force of his signature disastrous awkwardness.
As “Friendship” progresses, my earlier suspicions are confirmed. Everybody is here tonight to see Tim Robinson. The crowd laughs at pretty much everything he does, from his smallest acting choices to his biggest freak-outs. It’s immediately clear that this film exists solely as a vehicle for Robinson’s genius. In an interview with The New Yorker, writer-director Andrew DeYoung (debut) explains that he wrote “Friendship” with Robinson specifically in mind for the leading role.
“Tim’s very alive. There are some performers … who just pierce through your defenses.”
As I settle into my seat and the film picks up speed, I’m certain that DeYoung made the right casting choice. His performance isn’t just piercing. It feels measured and mature, set apart from his usually erratic work by a clearly structured narrative.
This narrative makes the entire first act of “Friendship” an almost effortless watch. The film opens with Robinson playing apathetic everyman Craig as he attempts to befriend his charismatic neighbor Austin (Paul Rudd, “Death of a Unicorn”). Austin has everything that Craig dreams of: good friends, a cool job and innate likeability. In comparison, Craig is pretty much a total loser. He works a lonely office job and continuously fails to connect with his wife, the aforementioned Tami. When Austin randomly invites Craig over for a casual beer, Craig is elated.
DeYoung films these early scenes between Craig and Austin like a melodramatic rom-com. There are slow zooms on Austin’s face, swelling musical cues and electric moments of connection between the two men. It’s clear that Craig really yearns for everything that Austin offers. Miraculously, Austin seems to like Craig, too. Craig is overly self-aware and anxious, but even his most heinous faux-pas are easily smoothed over by Austin. It’s a fun dynamic to watch — Robinson brings the full strength of his weirdness to his portrayal of Craig, and Rudd tempers it easily with his own movie star charisma. Their friendship has all the flavor of a classic Robinson sketch — abstract comedy, hyper-self awareness, laugh out loud punchlines — but with the more measured narrative touch of a Hollywood screenwriter. Robinson gets to be weird in plenty of strange situations, but each of these situations exist within the broader story of a burgeoning friendship.
Unfortunately, this broader story crumbles about halfway through, when Austin begins ignoring Craig after a particularly uncomfortable hangout session. Initially, it seems like this plot point will also be resolved via rom-com logic — a separation between the two should set up a third act where Craig admits his wrongdoing and recaptures Austin’s affection. If only things were so simple. Instead of any reasonable conclusion, the third act of “Friendship” sees Craig spiraling endlessly into humiliated insanity as each of his attempts to re-befriend Austin fall flat.
With Robinson at the helm of this film, I expected (and wanted) things to become disastrous. But there’s only so much disaster that a feature film can handle. Unlike sketch comedy or sitcoms, the clock doesn’t reset every 15 minutes. Viewers live with these characters for a long time, and watching Craig remain statically insane only works for so long. As the film wears on and Craig continues to make poor decisions, I feel the audience’s energy around me begin to dwindle. Objectively funny bits that would’ve gotten huge laughs at the beginning of the film now land almost silently. When the film ends without any sort of resolution between Craig and Austin, I’m having trouble feeling anything but drained. My fellow moviegoers seem to be of the same opinion. I shuffle out of the theater surrounded by dazed silence and muted conversation.
As I step outside, I watch an older couple in front of me attempt to unpack “Friendship.” They duck their heads together, muttering quietly. “Well,” one of them remarks to the other. “At least it wasn’t too long.” I can’t help but feel bad for them. “Friendship” clearly was not made with the general public in mind. Robinson is an acquired taste, and this film expects you to have already acquired that taste. Without any sort of strong central narrative, the only thing for audiences to follow is Robinson himself, who is present in nearly every scene of the film. But if you’re not already familiar with his acting style and absurdist proclivities, I imagine that his mere presence wouldn’t be enough to keep your attention. If I were to guess, the couple I overheard weren’t the only people in that theater checking their watches and waiting for the film to end.
You can argue that “Friendship” is meant to be alienating and unsatisfying. The film commits to its irregularities early on, and there’s nothing wrong with that — it follows in the footsteps of many other meandering, critically-acclaimed indie-auteur works like “Beau is Afraid” and “I Saw the TV Glow.” There’s merit to films like this. Their strange, ricocheting morals can force us to engage more fully with theme and character. But that surreal sort of storytelling is exactly the kind of thing Robinson is already skilled at creating.
We’ve seen Tim Robinson’s characters fail and fumble and refuse to adhere to long-form narratives. That’s what he’s built his career on. But we’ve never seen his characters experience consequences for their actions or pick up the pieces after they fail. People packed the premiere of “Friendship” to see a fully-formed Robinson character, to see his performance style evolve. We wanted to see him exist within a longer, more satisfying narrative. We wanted to see him in a movie. “Friendship” was a chance to let Tim Robinson invent a fully-formed character. It’s a chance DeYoung never takes.
Daily Arts Writer Lola D’Onofrio can be reached at lolad@umich.edu.
