These are the universal truths of being a bridesmaid: You will act way more excited than you are at the news of your friend’s engagement. You will be much poorer afterward. At least one woman in the group will be sort of awful. If you all go to a dodgy Brazilian restaurant, you’ll spend the rest of the day in the bathroom. (OK, that one happens outside the wedding zone, too.)
“Bridesmaids” is the uglier side of the poofy, princessy “It’s My Day” fantasy — finally outed by Kristen Wiig, armed with a crack comic ensemble and the heft of the Judd Apatow brand. As screenwriter, producer and star of “Bridesmaids,” Wiig proves she’s more than the sum of her overused “SNL” characters. She’s America’s Awkward Sweetheart.
There are moments in “Bridesmaids” that may be squirm-inducing for male moviegoers. Do they want to learn that kneading a woman’s breasts like pizza dough doesn’t turn her on — even when a hottie like Jon Hamm does it? Will they appreciate Wiig’s impression of male genitalia, or Maya Rudolph guffawing at it? Can they stomach a lady version of the laxative scene from “Dumb and Dumber”?
If they have senses of humor, I’m betting they can.
In one fell swoop, the movie reclaims the “chick flick” genre — wheezing on life support for years — and flips an imperfectly manicured finger at the hoary adage that women aren’t funny.
Whether it’s Melissa McCarthy vowing to “climb [a male party guest] like a tree” or Wendi McLendon-Covey describing the unholy stickiness of a houseful of teenage boys, it’s clear Wiig knew exactly what she was doing when she assembled this wedding party.
But where Wiig’s movie really rises above frequent comparisons to “The Hangover” is in its inability to be mean-spirited or generic. Chris O’Dowd, as the love interest, is as much of an oddball as any of the ladies (proving to Apatow that this is possible in reverse?); in-fighting between women never devolves into “catfight” territory.
Yes, believe it or not, nobody calls anybody a bitch in the making of this film.