The Disaster Artist

The Disaster Artist

At one point in this zany retelling of the worst film in the world, The Room by man of mystery Tommy Wiseau (James Franco, who also directs), a peeved script supervisor in the shape of Seth Rogen says something along the lines of: “Let’s go to a bar and erase all memory of today.” Which is a pretty accurate description of my post-match analysis of Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber’s screenplay which is itself based on the non-fiction book of the same name by Wiseau’s co-star Greg “Baby Face” Sestero (Dave Franco whose radiant smile more than lives up to his character’s nickname).

To be clear, James Franco’s performance is a hoot: his accent a cross between Charlie Chan and Count Dracula; his physicality the bastard child of Ozzie Osbourne and a zombie from Night of the Living Dead; his age a movable feast identical to whoever is standing before him; and the financial backing for his six million dollar vanity project shrouded in mystery. And it’s obvious that he and his brothers Dave and Tom, not to mention a conveyor belt of A-listers in small cameo roles (Bryan Cranston, Judd Apatow and Zac Efron to name but three) are having a hoot. But for the audience, the hoot-o-meter rarely strays from titter to belly laugh.