Two Phoebe Bridgers songs bookend I Used to Be Funny on a soundtrack that also includes tunes by Adrianne Lenker and MUNA, among others. While listeners of these songs can do their best to relate, they may be left wondering what exactly took place in the artists’ lives to elicit these emotions. Like these musicians, I Used to Be Funny’s protagonist takes her time to self-reflect, sorting out complex and contradictory feelings following an undisclosed harrowing experience.
Filmmaker Ally Pankiw does this by intention, leaving the event that distresses Sam (Rachel Sennott) a mystery. The story has an unconventional narrative structure, first introducing a primary timeline that occurs after the event in question and then inserting flashbacks to catch the audience up. Through these recollection scenes, viewers gain information in a controlled manner which only enhances the impact of the event’s eventual disclosure. It’s a tough act to pull off, but when done well, it can recontextualize the principal storyline, leaving audiences with much more to think about long after the runtime comes to an end.
I Used to Be Funny’s initial timeline introduces Sam as a standup comedian struggling to regain her footing both creatively and personally. Taking a shower is an accomplishment, and her roommates have to cover most of her rent. She is stuck in a depressed haze, and we learn that a 14-year-old who Sam cared about ran away from home and has been missing for four days. The flashback sequences are in stark contrast to her current state, showing Sam in a much livelier mood. We get why she’s a comedian—she’s funny, sharp and can connect with people in unexpected ways. We see her take a job as an au pair for a younger Brooke (Olga Petsa), the same girl who disappeared. Brooke’s mother is ill and her father, Cameron (Jason Jones), works often. Future flashbacks depict the rise and fall of the pair’s connection—Sam turns into an older sister figure for Brooke—as well as the many crumbling relationships Sam has with her roommates (Sabrina Jalees, Caleb Hearon) and boyfriend (Ennis Esmer).
On paper, it’s a solid setup, but the obstruction of the troubling incident becomes frustrating as the film progresses, coming across as manipulative rather than smart. The main problem is that it transforms the event leading to Sam’s struggles into a puzzle, centering its reveal as the climactic moment instead of any emotional breakthrough that Sam undergoes. It’s cheap, especially when the ideas the film is working with are so powerful. The ending is also framed as a sweet development with everything wrapped up in a bow. Afterward, viewers may feel icky that such important and sensitive subject matter was handled in this manner. So why was this decision made? Does hiding the moment mirror how Sam’s feelings and memories become fragmented and scrambled as a result of the trauma? Or is the narrative constructed in this way to illustrate how Sam needs to do emotional work to move forward with her life? It’s difficult to find an explanation that makes this creative choice worth it.
The storytelling style can also create tonal issues where an anxiety-filled scene is awkwardly disrupted with quick-fire jokes. Yes, Sam and her roommates are comedians, but the degree to which the script pushes this fact goes beyond reasonable belief. However, Pankiw’s script also finds some truth in this imbalance, where the happy moments between Sam and Brooke turn into daggers after their relationship deteriorates. It’s also insightful in its exploration of how Sam’s pain spreads to the people closest to her, demonstrating how a traumatic experience changes the lives of more than just the victim.
I Used to Be Funny is strongest when it focuses on Sam’s efforts to heal. It’s a process that develops differently for each person and is as complicated as this film’s narrative. Pankiw recognizes this and emphasizes these themes at the end, but ultimately, the film fails at being a moving tale of someone processing their darkest moments and embracing their future.
Photo courtesy of Utopia
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