Men will literally, as the meme goes, do anything to avoid therapy. They’ll start wars. They’ll become obsessed with the Roman empire. They’ll join more improv teams than they could possibly need. The meme captures the exaggerated nature of the “male-loneliness epidemic” narrative: Despite a recent study finding that American men and women are roughly equally lonely, the idea that men are especially unable to cope with social isolation persists.
But for Craig Waterman, the protagonist of the new film Friendship, male loneliness is no myth. Played by the comedian Tim Robinson—best known as the mastermind behind the sketch-comedy series I Think You Should Leave—Craig is, to put it mildly, dreadful at making friends. He’s an intrusive thought in human form, the embodiment of the speed bump he had the city install on his street. He’s a tightly wound collection of eccentricities attempting to come off as an everyman, and as such, his co-workers can’t stand him. His teenage son won’t go see the “new Marvel” with him. Even his wife, Tami (played by Kate Mara), would rather hang out with her ex-boyfriend. In other words, Craig is a weirdo who’s perfectly in keeping with Robinson’s oeuvre of over-the-top characters: He knows he’s not fitting in, but he desperately wants to anyway. That he fails again and again to perform a more socially acceptable version of himself leaves him anxious, frustrated, and at times enraged.
It’s no wonder, then, that Craig can’t seem to accept when a relationship is over. Friendship traces how Craig and his neighbor Austin (Paul Rudd), a jovial weatherman, quickly bond and then break apart. At first, the pair get along beautifully: Craig goes to see Austin perform with his band, and Austin takes Craig mushroom foraging. But when Craig ruins an evening with Austin’s buddies, Austin cuts him off. Craig’s attempts to repair their closeness only make the situation worse before veering into the bizarre. The result is a film that’s both funny and unnerving; it examines the absurdity of modern male-bonding rituals and the lengths a person will go to in order to get someone else, especially a new friend, to like them.
[Read: An unlikely model for male friendship]
Friendship often plays like a horror movie, with the director, Andrew DeYoung, deploying techniques that shroud the story in suspense: dramatic cinematography, slow zooms, an off-putting lo-fi score. Robinson, meanwhile, has a knack for pulling faces that make him seem harmless yet somehow creepy. In an early scene, when Craig watches Austin perform, he imagines himself as the band’s drummer. Craig’s open-mouthed, wide-eyed expression can be interpreted as admiration, but it can also scan as obsession. He looks like he is about to start drooling.
The film is full of visual gags like that, many of which do little to move the plot forward. A guy named Jimp has to repeat his name multiple times before Craig understands him. When Craig tries a recreational drug, he hallucinates about wandering into a Subway sandwich shop; what follows made me laugh so much that I teared up. At work, Craig fills his coffee mug to the brim, shuffles through the office hallways trying not to spill a drop, and then stiffly sips from the rim during a meeting. These scenes come off as irrelevant sketches shoehorned into the story, but they capture how Craig perceives the world around him. Even in the most normal of circumstances, his social awkwardness leads to him doing or fixating on something unusual—and then struggling to understand why others don’t see his point of view.
Yet Robinson never makes Craig out to be a complete outcast—he’s just a guy who’s baffled by how people get along. His deceptively nuanced performance makes Friendship somewhat compassionate as a study of how exhausting social mores can be to grasp. On the disastrous night when he meets Austin’s friends, for instance, Craig copies everyone around him, grabbing a beer, delivering self-deprecating jokes, and agreeing to some casual sparring. But when he punches his new pal hard enough to make him fall over, the other men’s silence befuddles him. Wasn’t that what they’d wanted him to do, in cheering him on so enthusiastically? Later in the film, Craig takes Tami out on a date that, unbeknownst to her, involves exploring a hidden network of underground tunnels; he had so much fun trekking through them with Austin. Tami dislikes the experience, however, leaving Craig confused. Why is an adventure okay in one context and not in another? Would she have enjoyed herself if she were with someone who more easily commanded respect, like Austin? Is Craig really the problem—or are the unspoken expectations defining human interaction the actual culprits?
[Read: How the passionate male friendship died]
Friendship doesn’t really pursue any answers to those questions, and the film is too slight and scattershot to be able to offer illuminating insights. Instead, it fearlessly—and wackily—reckons with how confounding people can be in their bid for one another’s approval: at work, at home, at their new friend’s house while dressed in their finest Ocean View Dining clothing. (It’s the only brand that fits Craig just right.) More than anything, Robinson delivers a fantastic showcase for his particular brand of humor. His shtick—characters who seem like average middle-aged men until they open their mouth—has won him a cult following, but it’s likely not for everyone. For those who prefer less cringe, well, take it from Craig himself: There’s a new Marvel out.
