Don't Think Twice

Navel gazing ain’t easy. At least, that’s what navel gazers say. They can’t stop tugging at the lint, and those dead black tails of the umbilical cord just barely poking out. I hate navel gazing. The gazer assumes his navel is better to watch than any other. I know for empirical fact that this is untrue. There are shitloads of really great navels on display on the Internet. Also, there are some really hot toes and sweet nostrils. 

Writers are the most annoying navel gazers because they want to tell us all about their own doughy buttons. Rather than write about the world, they write about themselves. Too many authors think they have some rare insight to share about what it’s like to be a shitty writer, or to be shat upon by an industry they could just as easily avoid, or that their brand of misery is somehow poignant. Rather than writing to entertain or educate, they write for pity.  Oh, poor writer, it’s so hard not being appreciated for being bad at writing. In my experience, pity is more easily gotten, and more deserved, by wetting yourself and asking passers-by if they’re your mommy. Don’t shit yourself, though. Nobody feels sorry for the guy who’s crapped his pants. But if you see a guy who has, wet yourself and sit just down the path. By comparison, you’ll appear very pitiable.

Navel-gazing writers don’t see that their misery is a commodity, as available as quinoa from the bulk bins at the co-op. The quinoa I have, on occasion spat in, or run my hand through after a particularly unsanitary bathroom excursion. Every writer is miserable, or wishes to be, with the exception of James Patterson, but that’s because he’s a robot.

The best writers channel their misery into stories and adventures about others. They want you to either feel miserable, or as happy as they wish they were, but not pity. The worst writers--and I’ve sat in city rec creative writing classes with loads of them--write about themselves, or thinly veiled versions of themselves in grim fables about how hard it is to be a writer. Well, no fucking shit it is when you spend all your God damn time whining.

All this leads me to this week’s movie, Don’t Think Twice, which is a slice of navel-gazing comedy about improv comics that I didn’t hate, but I didn’t nearly love as much as wannabe improv comics will. And I’m pretty sure they lead the world in navel gazing. I would say jugglers are tied with them. But jugglers mostly sit around thinking, “Holy fuck is my belly button awesome. Wish I could juggle it.”

Comic Mike Birbiglia wrote and directed the movie. He’s a pretty funny guy, a sort of middle America, schlubby dude who works familiar territory about bad relationships with some surrealist twists. He also made Sleepwalk with Me, another movie more about comedy than it was comedy.

In Don’t Think Twice, a small improv troupe is torn apart when Jack (Keegan Michael Keegan-Key) is hired away by a Saturday Night Live clone. In the wake of their friend’s success, the remaining members, which include Birbiglia as the oldest member, struggle to deal with their own feelings. Mostly, they are bitter that it was Jack and not them who moved up the rung. 

I know this feeling well. I’ve remained in dry dock as many friends and acquaintances launched their careers into orbit. I’ve had sputtering attempts to take off and near-misses that I’ve sabotaged with claims of integrity that really masked a crippling fear of failure. I spent the first 99% of my life wishing ill on my friends while expecting them to be happy for me when I succeeded. After all, I thought we all agreed that I deserved it most. I’ve grown up, though. It’s silly and unproductive to feel resentment. It’s petty to think dwell on their success and think it in any way limits my own opportunities. 

I’ve found the best way to deal with the success of others is not bitterness but by badmouthing them behind their backs. 

When others move on, there is also this feeling of despair. As a writer, a comic or an actor, you waited at the station all day for the right train, and now it’s starting to get dark and you have to wonder if your ride is coming. Maybe you should have just gotten on some other train rather than waited. Now you’re stuck.

Birbiglia’s character Miles best reflects this. He’s taught Jack and the others how to be funny, and he’s seen them take off. Now approaching middle age, he is too old to fit in and probably not good enough to move beyond the little troupe and its five dollar shows. What happens if you’re just not that good at the only thing you want to do? Well, the easiest thing is to lie to yourself. And to drink a shitload so you can’t even tell when you’re lying. Trust me.

The movie has its funny moments, and they are pretty fucking funny. In particular, a scene where one of the troupe’s member’s father has a motorcycle crash and the members all mimic his enfeebled voice. The victim’s son tells the others they are being inappropriate. Only he should get to do the impression. A few improv scenes hit, and some miss.

Birbiglia also shows a delicate hand as a writer and director. He never forces a gag, and he never pushes characters out of shape for a plot point or punchline. It’s just too fucking bad his characters are all a bunch of miserable comics. I’d love for him to use his skills on something other than his own navel. Three Fingers for Don’t Think Twice.