Gangly-armed or thick-necked with off-colored skin tones or noses—the harshly drawn inhabitants of Nerdland don’t have the benefit of beauty to mask their ugly insides. They’re off-putting even when appealing. Like many of the character designs on Adult Swim cartoon shows, the characters’ distinctive features are sharpened and exaggerated in ways that makes their appearances unsettling. It should be no surprise that Nerdland comes from Chris Prynoski (Metalocalypse, Motorcity), veteran of the late night Cartoon Network universe, where absurdist and divisive humor has thrived for the past couple decades.

In the heart of the entertainment industry, nearly 30-year-old roommates John (voiced by Paul Rudd) and Elliot (Patton Oswalt) feel their shot at world fame is dwindling. At first, both seem like familiar characters repurposed for Nerdland’s grimy, stoner sketchbook aesthetic. The pair live together in a rundown Hollywood apartment with old beer bottles and pizza boxes strewn across the floor. Elliot, a would-be screenwriter, who spends more time on the couch playing video games than writing (a depressing familiar conceit) ends up penning a script about a vengeful Rip Van Winkle waking from his slumber to shotgun blast open the skulls of strip club patrons. His roommate John—an aspiring actor—is the gentler, naïf, Lenny Small-type. When John tries to pass off Elliot’s script to a well-known movie star, John fumbles the pages and rips his pants in an effort to pick them up, exposing his puckered anus to the crowd.

The hand-drawn feature animation is the first feature from animation house Titmouse, Inc., a smooth transition to the big screen that borrows animated TV comedies’ fast-paced style. Quick cutaways pepper the dialog-heavy moments with visual gags. They reveal the protagonists’ dreams of red carpets lined with adoring fans or boob-filled, heavenly utopias, many of which feel ripped from an angsty teenage boy’s fantasies. But like a random episode of Family Guy, these jokes range in quality from shocking and fun to predictably cynical. Its misanthropic charms often redeem Nerdland, but John and Elliot’s aversion to productivity can become grating to watch for the duration (even if that length is only 83 minutes).

John and Elliot’s pursuit of fame at any twisted cost makes the pair progressively harder to like. Nerdland‘s mocking vision of LA is short on any redeeming personalities. Filled with silly caricatures of the fame-worshipping underclass, it’s clear that the director Prynoski as well as the screenwriter Andrew Kevin Walker hate just about every person in this world. And yes, that’s the same Andrew Kevin Walker who wrote Se7en and contributed an uncredited rewrite to Fight Club—a film with similar nihilistic social satire. With a considerably scattershot plot, one which has a somewhat episode design, Nerdland lacks some of the narrative momentum that comes from more cohesive stories.

While a majority of scenes revolve around the funny duo at the cartoon’s center, recognizable voices make cameos throughout. Comedians such as Molly Shannon, Paul Scheer, as well as Garfunkel & Oats’ Kate Micucci & Riki Lindhome make extended appearances. Among the funniest roles, Hannibal Burress’ discomforting slant on the standard, slovenly Comic Book Guy pairs well with his wry delivery. Like many of the notable comedians that lend their voice to Nerdland, Oswalt and Rudd don’t alter their voice for their roles—they’re each well-suited to the characters and make for an amusing, albeit unlikely pairing.

Victims of a media-driven culture, John and Elliot ultimately determine that their shortest path to recognition is through notoriety—though as a hapless pair of unskilled, intermittently unemployed slackers the duo’s ability to accomplish anything is questionable. Some of their antics are hilarious but as the film progresses, many of the bits drag on too long. Prynoski and Walker find some strange insights on their race to the moral bottom with John and Elliot—a commentary that often acts more searing and urgent than it is—but like a developing TV comedy, Nerdland is often best in small patches.

It takes less than a minute for Addicted to Fresno to state its intentions. This is a story about sisters, but it’s not one about sisterly love. Instead, it’s a story about how sisters “sink each other,” and the image of one of the main characters in a prisoner’s outfit means things aren’t going to go well for at least one of these women. Yet Addicted to Fresno, Jamie Babbit’s (But I’m a Cheerleader) latest dark comedy, isn’t about a sisterly relationship falling apart. It’s more about the impact a poisonous family relationship can have, and how sibling support can harm and help both parties. But I’m getting a little ahead of myself here. Addicted to Fresno is, first and foremost, a very silly and sometimes mean-spirited comedy that can get a little too goofy for its own good.

After the brief tease at its beginning, the film flashes back to two years earlier when Shannon (Judy Greer) starts her life over after getting out of sex rehab. Her sister Martha (Natasha Lyonne, whose reunion with Babbit will hopefully continue from here on out), a hotel maid, gets Shannon a job so they can work together. Ever since their parents died Martha feels obligated to take care of Shannon, and it’s implied that this isn’t the first time she’s bailed her sister out of a bad situation. Shannon meanwhile is an obnoxiously sardonic type, complaining about how terrible life in Fresno is and taking no responsibility for her faults. Martha’s in the midst of a sort-of-breakup with a girl at her gym, and Shannon is covering up that she was in fact kicked out of sex rehab for sleeping with her therapist (Ron Livingston).

It takes almost no time for Shannon and Martha to fall into a routine of arguing with one other, but this time Shannon screws up significantly. Martha catches her sleeping with a disgusting hotel guest (Jon Daly, a sleazy highlight for his brief time on-screen), and in the ensuing scuffle he winds up dead. In an attempt to appease her sister, Shannon claims she was being raped but insists they don’t call the cops since as a sex addict they aren’t likely to believe her. Martha agrees to help dispose of the body, leading to a failed attempt to convince a couple pet cemetery owners (Fred Armisen & Allison Tolman) that they want to cremate a really big dog. The owners, desperate for cash, blackmail Shannon & Martha into giving them $25,000 in three days or else they go to the police.

Babbit attempts to make a sort of madcap, screwball comedy out of the entire situation, with Shannon and Martha carting their corpse around the city in a bin while resorting to desperate measures for cash. The whole thing feels frantic; within a short span of time the film wildly veers from a botched heist to a cheap “kickass” montage to a dramatic fight, and the constant changes in tone are jarring. It also doesn’t help that Karey Dornetto’s screenplay seems inclined to pick up and throw away character or story beats without any sense of purpose or resolution. A second heist attempt is thrown in and then tapers off, while the revolving door of supporting characters (including Molly Shannon, Jessica St. Clair, and Aubrey Plaza to name a few) provide light laughs, but make little to no impact. A teen’s attempt to launch his hip-hop career at his bar mitzvah is among the basest of the jokes presented.

But Addicted to Fresno is a funny film, for the most part, largely due to its game cast. Lyonne and Greer are both brilliantly cast against type here, with Lyonne taking the role of the cheery optimist and Greer diving into the chance to play a morose, bitchy character. Their performances wind up becoming the saving grace of the film since their wide range and great chemistry together sells the more sincere and dramatic moments in the final act. The ensemble does most of the film’s heavy lifting, since the unevenness of the script impacts Babbit’s direction as well (it’s surprising to see how lackluster her direction can be at times, considering her excellent work on television over the years). The sisterly bond at the center winds up resonating the most, but it seems problematic when the most memorable parts of a comedy are the unfunny parts.

Addicted to Fresno is available via VOD platforms September 1 and in theaters October 2, 2015.

A particularly crafty young-adult tear-jerker, Me and Earl and the Dying Girl packs an emotional punch, but hits us with a looping left hook as opposed to its contemporaries’ straight jabs on the nose. Director Alfonso Gomez-Rejon and screenwriter Jesse Andrews (who adapted from his own novel) go to great lengths to assure us that this won’t be your typical teen drama. They’re setting a booby trap: while most of Me and Earl sidesteps convention, its endgame is familiar, designed to make you reach for the tissues and hug your loved ones a little tighter. I wouldn’t say I fell for the trap completely (for better or for worse, my eyes stayed dry throughout), but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t moved.

The film won the two biggest prizes at Sundance earlier this year, and I’ve got to believe part of its success at the festival lies in the “Me” of the film’s title. The main character, Greg (Thomas Mann), is walking catnip for film geeks. He’s a witty, socially faceless high-schooler who, on his spare time, makes DIY spoofs of Criterion Collection classics with his best bud, Earl (R.J. Cyler). (Their sizable oeuvre includes gems like The Rad Shoes, Eyes Wide Butt and La Gelee.)

The drama stems from Greg and Earl’s schoolmate Rachel (Olivia Cooke), the terminal teen from the title who’s been diagnosed with leukemia. Greg’s mom (Connie Britton, who played one of the greatest TV moms ever on Friday Night Lights), upon hearing of the girl’s condition, terrorizes him into the ridiculously awkward situation of befriending Rachel out of the blue. At the foot of Rachel’s staircase, Greg comes clean. “I’m actually here because my mom is making me,” he says with a shrug. “Just let me hang out with you for one day. I can tell my mom we hung out and then we can be out of each others’ lives. Deal?”

In that moment they do make a deal, but not the one Greg so awkwardly outlined. By Greg being so forthcoming and honest about his naggy-mom situation, he earns her trust. He says probably the only thing that would have compelled Rachel to invite him into her room, and from there they make an unspoken pact to never bullshit each other. The film revolves around their friendship, which is predicated on this “no-bullshit” pact, and when it’s broken, their friendship consequently breaks down.

The film’s quick-witted dialogue is mostly funny, though the smartass-ness can feel a little overbearing. Greg narrates, breaking the story up with wry road markers like “Day One of Doomed Friendship,” addressing us directly, a device that sets up most of the film’s frank subversions of YA clichés. In the first of many scenes involving Rachel and Greg hanging out in her elaborately hand-decorated bedroom, they make a real connection and lock eyes. Via narration and a quick visual flourish, Greg promises that this is a strictly platonic story, free of nervous sexual tension (between he and Rachel, at least). This is a smart move by Gomez-Rejon and Andrews, as it dispels any anticipation the audience may have of Greg and Rachel getting together. Without this little aside, the resulting “Are they gonna kiss?” thoughts of teen romance would have been a major distraction from the story, which is about something else entirely.

Top-to-bottom, the performers enrich the material, making moments and characterizations work when, on paper, they’re pretty sketchy. Earl, for example, falls into black-teen stereotype a little too much, but Cyler’s measured, steady-handed approach to acting give Earl gravitas and maturity that makes him a perfect counter-weight to Greg’s skittish self-defeatism and neurosis. Mann slouches and mumbles just like me and all my nerdy friends did in high school (I mean that as a compliment), and his performance is only outdone by Cooke’s. With every muscle in her face relaxed, she can convey a wide range of emotions, from fear, to frustration, to sadness, to forgiveness. When Greg’s social ineptness gets out of control, she just sits there like a sage, blank-faced, though through her eyes we know exactly what she’s thinking.

The adult characterizations aren’t appealing, though the actors embodying them are welcome presences all. Greg’s dad is played by Nick Offerman, and though he and Britton have little chemistry, his fleeting nudges of encouragement to his son feel sincere and warm. The most archetypal role is given to Jon Bernthal, who plays Greg and Earl’s favorite, tatted-up teacher (he’s Mr. Turner from Boy Meets World). Molly Shannon plays Rachel’s mom, whose not-so-subtle sexual advances on Greg drove me closer to tears than the film’s tragic elements. When she is called upon to hit dramatic beats, though, she overachieves.

The movie’s visuals are its strength; the camerawork and editing is dynamic, thoughtful and patient. Gomez-Rejon and DP Chung-hoon Chung use a lot of wide-angle shots and panning and flashy maneuvers that recall Wes Anderson and Martin Scorsese for sure, though I think Gomez-Rejon’s style is less polished and more spontaneous (the camera moves feel very choreographed, yet unpredictable). There’s a wonderful sense of movement and color to the visuals, though the filmmakers have enough discipline to know when to slow things down. A long, static, uninterrupted shot near the end of the film sees Greg and Rachel having a very heavy, very uncomfortable conversation, and the camera is almost cowering in the corner of the room. The actors will go 15-20 seconds without saying a word, and the tension in there is so thick that there’s no way the camera could ever wade through it or dare to budge. The film also harbors one of the best montages I’ve seen in a long time, one which cleverly illustrates the many emotional ups and downs of Greg and Rachel’s summertime meet-ups.

The Fault In Our Stars is a movie with a similar outer shell to Me and Earl, but with way more hanky-panky. That movie is about kids always saying the exact right thing or the exact wrong thing all the time, the filmmakers and actors banging on the drums of romance and tragedy as hard as they can the whole way through. Me and Earl feels much more frazzled and uncomfortable and authentic, frankly, taking a more low-key approach that’s a little easier to digest than full-on melodrama. What’s captured here so well is the solipsism and confusion of being an adolescent who’s forced to deal with death before you’re ready to, an aspect of life so many films have trouble representing on-screen. Gomez-Rejon and his three young leads have so much promise it’s scary.

While zombie movies can be traced back to the 1930s, the modern zombie film era is generally accepted to have begun with George A. Romero’s Night of the Living Dead (1968). Since then, the zombie movie has been a staple at the cinema and at home, with offerings ranging from the totally ’80s classic Night of the Comet to the biggest box office zombie flick yet, World War Z. Because there are only so many ways to serve up brains, and with TV’s The Walking Dead doing an excellent job of that on a regular basis, filmmakers are taking unique approaches to zombies and treating them as characters, not just mindless threats. Now we have tales of zombie romance such as the latest zombie movie to hit theaters, Life After Beth.

Zach Orfman (Dane DeHaan) is a devastated teen. His girlfriend, Beth Slocum (Aubrey Plaza), has died, and not long after the couple’s last discussion revolved around ending their relationship. In the days after her funeral, the young man clings to Beth’s memory and spends as much time with her parents as he can. He grows suspicious, however, when the Slocums (John C. Reilly and Molly Shannon) stop returning his calls. A visit to their house – where they pretend not to be home – reveals the truth behind their sudden secrecy: Beth is alive.

Well, sort of.

Beth is a zombie, only she doesn’t realize it. (Her parents see her as being resurrected.) As she and Zach rekindle their romance, Beth slowly deteriorates in both body and mind.

Life After Beth’s premise tantalizes before the film even fades in. Despite what feels like market saturation, zombies are still all the rage. The film’s plot (my dead girlfriend doesn’t know she’s dead) is a clever one. The leads are talented, good-looking, and popular. The supporting cast is terrific (including Paul Reiser and Cheryl Hines as Zach’s parents), with decades of cumulative comedic acting experience among them. This is a film that is aching to succeed.

Unfortunately the film’s concept works better on paper than it does as a movie. Life After Beth‘s fatal flaw is that there is little to the story beyond the clever premise.

Writer/director Jeff Baena spends the first act of the film slogging through a set-up that includes creating a contrived conflict between Zach and Beth’s parents. Time is also wasted establishing Zach’s own parents, with their yelling and their disbelief and their short attention spans, as adults from a bad sitcom. Never does Baena show Beth’s death, her “resurrection,” or her triumphant return home. It’s mentioned, not shown.

The middle of the film is nothing more than a series of sketches, each as unfunny as the one before it, and only made different by Beth’s continued deteriorating physical and mental condition. There is, also, the introduction of a girl from Zach’s childhood, Erica Wexler (Anna Kendrick), inserted (I guess) to offer a future for Zach once Beth goes Full Zombie. It’s an inserted idea yet not well-developed; another great talent wasted.

The third act is perhaps the most baffling aspect of the entire film. I don’t want to spoil anything by revealing details, however the path the story takes seems to occur out of the blue as a device used to help bear the weight of the film’s non-full length structure and is highly frustrating. This third act surprise could have been nicely developed early, and then followed throughout the film as a meaty subplot.  Instead, it’s triggered as an escape hatch to bring the film to a preposterous conclusion.

It’s hard to fault anyone in the cast for their work, because no one is given much to work with in the first place. As noted, Reiser and Hines have a sitcom sensibility to them, as does Shannon. Reilly is only slightly elevated because he’s given more relevant dialogue than the rest of the grown-ups. Plaza does fine descending from hapless to mindless. Honestly, there isn’t an MVP performance in the bunch.

Everyone should walk away from this unscathed, but it will be curious to see how DeHaan’s career is affected. In Life After Beth, he’s pale and he broods and stumbles about in a disbelieving haze, none of which is memorable. However, this is his second subpar outing in 2014 (following the terrible The Amazing Spider-Man 2), so 2015 might be pivotal for the young actor. He has a period piece (Tulip Fever) coming out, but more importantly, he is playing James Dean in Anton Corbijn’s Life, a role that might be make-or-break for him.

The zombie genre will (un)live on beyond Life After Beth, a film that feels like a Halloween entry of a Saturday Night Live routine that may have been funny in a short sketch, but can’t survive being stretched out over 90 minutes.

Life After Beth trailer