40 Days and 40 Nights: Review By B. Alan Orange

Code Orange Alert #38351: Forty Days and Forty Nights

Like Riding in Cars with Whor*s, here's another movie I'd like to punch in the face. It delegates Maggie Gyllenhaal to those lonely cinema sidelines in a side pocket of saliva. She plays "best friend" to the anemic Shannyn Sossamon for all of about eleven minutes in allotted screen time; if that. Instead of giving the girl something useful to do, she sits knitting a red scarf (surely out of sexual frustration, if we're to believe the film's subtext), spouting throwaway advice to Shannyn's "Erica" character. Maggie's trapped in the same lonely box that restricted her from moving about in that horrible Drew Barrymuffin quasi-realistic fairy tale "Boys", where she phoned in her "girlfriend" duties at ninety-nine cents a minute. It seems as if she's closed off from the rest of this cast, and only gets to be in one scene occupied by someone other than DJ Sossamon. That's a crime, and I feel cheated; yeah, more than just a little ripped-off. I want a whole Maggie Gyllenhaal movie, but who knows when I'll get my wish? It often takes more than a year for those Sundance films to hit the Laemmle 5. I tried to get to Park City this year to see Secretary, but my ride up ditched me in the mountains. I arrived at the theater three days late, and my boss was very upset over my disappearance. It's not that he cared whether I lived or died, he just didn't want to go through the trouble of finding a replacement. I tried to get a screener, but the film's PR manager told me to, "Piss off, you bargain basement stalker!" Hey, it's not like I'm carrying a copy of Catcher in the Rye in my back pocket, making collect calls at the corner of 3rd and Gower. I just dig Gyllenhaal's spirit, and haven't seen anyone quite like her in a long time. When I have to suffer the hard seat at nine bucks a pop to see her do next to nothing, it hurts.

Of course, I didn't have anything else to do (and Maggie Gyllenhaal's one sexy knitter).

"Hey, Orange, aren't you suppose to be talking about the movie? Who cares about some actress no one's ever heard of?"

"Never heard of? Believe me; she's going to be the next big thing this time next year."

"Flavor of the month, maybe. Next big thing? No. I don't think so."

"Hey, Entertainment Weekly called her the next Gwyneth. If they don't know what they're talking about, who does?"

"Just review the movie."

40 Days and 40 Nights? Please; I can and have done that standing on my head. I'm eighteen years strong and still striking out. Of course, I'm no Josh Hartnett. He gets laid with ease just by walking absentmindedly into a door. Every five seconds, there's a girl at his side. No wonder he jumps on Jesus' back and implores a no-sex fast in the desert (yes, tripping ensues).

The rules are simple: No sexual intercourse, no sexual teasing (i.e. kissing or touching), and no masturbation for forty days and forty nights, in celebration of Lent. Of course, the film ducks the awful truth. When a male goes more than thirty days without leakage, those little spermies harden into a glue-like substance that clogs the tubes. This, in turn, causes Epididimidis. That's basically the medical term for blue balls, and it hurts like a steel-toed boot to the left testicle. The whole ordeal sucks, and I should know. I'm such a loser, this happened to me.

"But Orange, why didn't you just jerk-off? If not for yourself, then for your country?"

(Why? Because I have a hard time engaging in a soft game of happy fingers. I'll start thinking of a girl, and then I'll start thinking about how she hates me and wants nothing to do with me. Then I get really depressed and become disinterested in the task at hand.)

Josh should be prescribed the antibiotic Doxycycline, which eats at the stomach in fits of rage. He's not, and the film avoids this painful subject altogether.

Before Pee Wee got caught shellacking the back of someone's seat in an out of the way Porno Theater, the act of masturbation was looked down upon in public circles. No one copped to it, and I remember poor Jason Stellam becoming a social outcast after he was discovered making love to a gym towel in the locker room when he should have been at football practice. F*ck, kids were mean too him. After that one self-lusting act, he might as well have been a leaper. Then times changed. It has become the cool thing too admit to daily self-gratification. Everybody's always talking about it. Some colleges even offer a course on Better Self Love with an after-hours workshop. As my doctor explained to me, it's the healthy thing to do. Sperm are like Mexicans at the California Border. Those little bastards are going to keep coming at a fast rate. The body produces a gallon of jizz a day, and it needs a place to go. Otherwise, it will swell the balloon in near bursts of agony. A lot of times it will discharge itself, either when you're going to the bathroom or in the form of a wet dream. 40 Days and 40 Nights never delves into these topical areas, which is sad because they could have mined them for some occasional humor; an element absent from much of this film.

There were two ways this could have gone: Screwball Comedy ala Tomcats or realistic dramedy ala Serendipity. Being a Miramax film, it chose the latter. There are no gross-out moments, sans an empty condom that is flung and stuck against a window pane. 40 Days is your basic, coffee table romantic comedy with a twist of lime. While presented with a touch of class, it's the kind of movie that will be remade in ten years with less than prolific results. Future reviewers will dwell on the missing appeal of a once hunky Josh Hartnett. In the present, I'll dwell on this film's mixed message.

While the storyline is hinged on realizing a mental relationship over physical attraction, the real theme is about making a commitment and sticking too it. Josh is determined too make it through those 40 days, yet the film fails in keeping its own commitment at many levels. When Josh first gives into Lent and his self-sacrifice, the plot keeps track of each Day in secession, giving us a dated chyron in pace with the calendar. Half-way through Josh's agonizing ordeal, the film abandons this practice. It can't keep up and loses track, so towards the end, we never know which day he's on. Maybe the editor couldn't figure it out, or maybe he decided it wasn't working for him. Whoever was in charge of regulating this duty gave up and quit, cramping the follow-through.

Then, there's the bet. For a long while, it seems to be a cornerstone of the storyline; a key plot point. But, by the end of the movie, it's all but forgotten. We think we know who the winner is, yet we're never sure. They never tell us. Again, someone in the creative department failed in keeping the commitment. Really, the betting aspect is thrown into the story as a convenient way for DJ Sossamon to find out that Josh is abstaining. She wouldn't know otherwise, and there goes any conflict. This movie would lose all its steam if it were smooth sailing the entire trip.

Finally, we have the end of the movie: A cheat at the audience's expense. I won't give it away, but the writer doesn't play fair. In such a predictable movie, I didn't see this one coming. Again, we're denied a consistent set of ideas as played against the rule, thus proving that the movie isn't really about abstaining in the name of Christ. It's about Josh hooking up with the lovely Miss Shannyn. Given the choice, I'd probably go with the latter, too.

This is the type of movie women and gay lovers will flock to in pairs, leaving that beer drinking hetero back at home. There's not much action, with the exception of a thrilling city bus ride. Though, there are a number of key nude scenes (which seem to have made it past the MPAA only after they realized most of the paying customers could go home and look at a set in the mirror). It's not that 40 Days wont appeal to the average gun-totting Schwarzenegger fan, it's just that the movie tumbles about at its own leisurely pace. Yeah, this is a bit boring more than most of the time. And only Josh would meet a Sossamon-like hottie at the laundromat. I've been going to the Wash 'n Wear every other week for three years, and it's usually just me and some sweaty Arab, frustrated that he hasn't happened upon a Pachanne'ho near the fabric softener dispenser. (Plus, there's always some shirtless turd outside, scratching his back against the wall like some lost Grizzly Bear. I'm never getting laid.)

Hartnett is a good actor. I like him best in movies like Halloween H2O and the Faculty, back when he had that goofy haircut. In 40 Day and 40 Nights, he proves to be rather inept at comedy. He chisels out a few laughs, but his timing is off. He's always jaunting about with that squint on his face, which seems to say, "Open your mouth and I'm going to punch you in the teeth." He's headed for a straightforward, Sean Penn-type career in seriousness, and I have a feeling this type of film will be put on the backburner. It's not your typical teen movie, and Josh isn't your typical teen movie actor. I just think he's better suited to fists and guns. The kid's got a very dark edge that overplays being sweet. His onscreen persona is a square into the circle of romantic cinema.

If you watch the set design carefully, you'll notice a lot of phallic symbols being put into play. That's par for the course in a movie of this nature. I especially liked the clever "hanging of the bagels" while sex is being discussed scene; each one shoved onto a spinning carousel of poles (stick your finger through a donut hole, and you'll catch my drift). The film has a few ups, but it's mostly down in a slumping sag that rendered me less proficient than when I walked into the theater. 40 Days and 40 Nights evens out in one word, "Blah." Take it or leave it, it won't change your life. As for me, I'm going to continue breezing well past my 40 Days without feminine contact (or otherwise). If you need me, I'll be aimlessly wondering Tower's WOW store without one sole purpose in life. I recently got laughed out of 7-11 at three in the morning, trying to purchase a copy of Teasing Toes from behind the counter. Hey, I was curious.

All the girls worth seeing on a daily basis are already attached to someone else's arm, and I'm even talking about the ugly ones with personality. Until the next time Maggie Gyllenhaal graces us with her lovely presence, I'll be at Border's purchasing a copy of Salinger's best work.

See ya.