OBVIOUS CHILD

Praying for early onslaught Alzheimer’s or minimal short-term memory loss, drastic measures to annihilate the effects of this homage to beggarly taste. “Donna” (giggling, “childish” Jenny Slate) is a stand -up comic in a run- down bar in Brooklyn; the film commences with a graphic description of her every biological function; prurient prattle about her intimacies, from boyfriend to underwear. The entire film is disgustingly informed by scatological references; humor? No, hubris.

Unforgivable, is her use of the word “like”, it is a substitute for every punctuation mark in the English language; regretfully, the movie would have been “like” twenty minutes shorter if this overworked, ubiquitously exhausting tool had been eliminated.

Diana Vreeland felt, “it was better to have bad taste than no taste at all”; she would have found exception in “Obvious Child”; only groans, instead of laughter, in a demographically diverse audience; civility, dignity, enchantment once revered, expected, now laid waste, crucified on an altar of puny privilege, license to dump on unsuspecting viewers a warped, salacious interpretation of comedy, amusement. The only “obvious” summation is that this film should never have been splayed upon the screen.

ZERO STARS

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