Attention, attention! The 40-Year-Old Virgin is completely and utterly unremarkable in every way! And I don’t mean that it’s too clichéd, or too vulgar, or too chaste, or any of the other dull criticisms lobbed at mainstream comedies. The problem with 40-Year-Old Virgin is that it refuses to break out of the heavily coded box of “adult sex comedy” that it so egregiously sets up for itself. So across-the-board praised yet so devoid of anything remotely transgressive (which is what comedy should aspire to), 40-Year-Old Virgin may have stirred up some gleeful crowds at the theater, but try watching it by yourself at home and let its repulsive undergirding and inconsistent character arcs make themselves known without the cacophonous laughter of teenagers and Freaks and Geeks disciples drowning them out. The main problem is with the form itself: the sex comedy. Not to rain on everyone’s parade, but the genre has been coasting on the same principles for years, reinforcing the same ideologies for a couple of yuks. Virgin is only different from American Pie in terms of its characters’ age; sooner or later, Steve Carrel’s protagonist will have to bury his face in the eternally mystical pussy palace in order to re-affirm his masculinity and establish his identity as a human being. It may be “just a comedy,” but haven’t we had enough already? The stereo-store compadres are an adorable bunch of misogynist dorks and players (well, the black one is really the only player), the aging but lovely redeeming single mom (Catherine Keener) is pleasantly neurotic but angelically understanding, while the other women are an assorted bunch of upchucking, drunk-off-their-ass nymphos.

Comedy’s propensity to shock is its most essential quality, and also that which is trickiest to get right. Just because Virgin dares to show a nice piece of morning wood spurting urine back all over its owner as he sits on the toilet doesn’t mean that it’s pushing any envelopes: Virgin is simply another rote crowd-pleaser, falling back into every convention known to the teen or stunted-youth comedy genre, and featuring a protagonist who is either mildly retarded or suave and sweet when the script calls for it. And let’s not forget, when all else fails: it’s singalong time! The best Virgin can come up with for this bereft conceit is its cast members prancing around to “The Age of Aquarius” as the credits roll. Yawn. Why is Albert Brooks criticized for being lame old-hat while this stale shit is dubbed “fresh”?