Is your mother worried? Would you like us to assign someone to worry your mother?
Jonah Hill, actor famous for playing sexless butterballs, has also been famous at this BeachGrit since he discovered the profound glories of surfing, some few years ago, and thus staked his claim as heir to Miki Dora’s Malibu Throne. There was an attempt, earlier, to have him on the on-again-off-again podcast Dirty Water and a back and forth that ended him wishing this surf journalist “I hope you enjoy the journey of learning to be funny.”
As salient today as it was then.
Apt.
Hill, in any case, has continued his stratospheric rise in both surfing and pop culture, signing on to play the Grating Dead’s Jerry Garcia in an up and coming biopic, transitioning to electric trucks for local longer board sessions, signing on to play golfer John Daly in another biopic.
Dating surf instructors, breaking up, dating others in the surf.
Releasing his directed and starred in Stuz on Netflix though bravely following Filipe Toledo’s lead and refusing to promote it publicly.
The film is an ostensible vehicle to share the wisdom he has learned from years of therapy with noted shrink Phil Stutz and before commenting upon felt it my duty, as a surf journalist, to watch the entire thing instead of just the trailer.
Hard yards.
And so, today, I sat down to do the work.
The film opens with Hill and Phil Stutz in a room, black and white, therapist explaining his philosophy, “tools,” Hill responding and reacting, attempting to deflect from himself, insisting this is a story about Stutz.
It quickly becomes a film about Hill.
There are bobs, weaves, peeks behind the fourth wall and purposeful tweaks of that fourth wall. Honestly, I’d image there is something to the overall message. Oh, it all smacks hard of the hero’s journey, which I loathe and purposefully mock in the properly uncelebrated Cocaine + Surfing, but Phil Stutz seems epic.
Hill?
He seems gorgeously likable if not entirely obsessed with himself and his own journey of learning how to discover his own happiness.
Hell.
Childhood trauma, self doubt, self realization, self, self, self, self, self, self, self, self, self, self, self, self, self, self.
It smacks of pure luxury.
Having the time to spend worrying and fixating upon the self, and the fourteen-year-old self, instead of having to get out of bed each morning and doing what it takes to get to bed each night.
Is your mother worried? Would you like us to assign someone to worry your mother?
I don’t know. I’m neither certified nor qualified to be offering mental help but ain’t a fixation upon self part of the problem if not the problem in its entirety?
Also, who amongst us looks upon our fourteen-year-old selves with great admiration? I was a straight kook at fourteen. Mark Hacker, quarterback, was not but who knows where that bro is now? I’d imagine nowhere. Both of us grew up in Coos Bay, Oregon.
Back around, though, ain’t that what has infected lineups, worldwide, in this the era of the Vulnerable Adult Learner?
Me.
A me obsession?
Me and my shit skills and my lack of understanding, research, care of me in a broader context?
Me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me.
Me floating in a glorious universe of me.
Ugh.
But also watch the entire film, yourself, and react.
Me is certainly off in me’s opinion.
