Vancouver-born Rogen has epitomised the stoner-slacker generation in comedies such as Knocked Up, though he failed to convince in the superhero stakes as The Green Hornet. The simple premise of his directorial debut is that he plays himself, a pleasant, friendly fellow who likes to smoke weed and watch 3-D television in his plush Los Angeles home. The film begins as he meets another Canadian entertainer, Jay Baruchel (also from Knocked Up), at the airport; they plan to spend a weekend having a good time and attending (reluctantly in Baruchel’s case) a party at the home of James Franco, Rogen’s co-star in Pineapple Express, who lives in a spectacularly ugly Hollywood Hills house where the decor seems to have been inspired by A Clockwork Orange.

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I was reminded of the days of the Rat Pack, when another group of famous actors (Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr, Peter Lawford) appeared together in films such as the original Ocean’s Eleven, clearly playing characters close to their own, characters for whom booze and broads were the order of the day. Women don’t seem so important for Rogen and his friends, but pot and pills are consumed in impressive amounts, and clearly no stigma is anticipated from this illegal activity; it’s all part of the fun.
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Other “stars" are present at the party, including Jonah Hill, Emma Watson (Hermione from the Harry Potter films, cheerfully trashing her squeaky-clean image), Paul Rudd, Michael Cera (whose behaviour with two girls in the bathroom presumably will only enhance his image), Christopher Mintz-Plasse, Rihanna and others. They’re all having a great time until nothing less than the end of the world occurs; vast sinkholes appear into which the unworthy plummet down into a fiery furnace while apparently deserving cases are sucked up into the sky enveloped in a bright blue light.

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Inside the Franco compound, after most of the partygoers have been disposed of, there remain only six: Rogen, Baruchel, Hill, Franco, Craig Robinson and, a late arrival, Danny McBride, portraying himself as a potentially dangerous wild card in the pack. The survivors decide to pool their resources — food, water, booze, drugs, a Milky Way — and to share everything equally, though it doesn’t necessarily work out like that.
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Much of the remainder of the film consists of scatological conversations as the increasingly freaked-out survivors are threatened by whatever is outside the house. Passages from the biblical account of the Apocalypse are read and argued over and the obsession with penis and bodily function jokes is unrestrained. A welcome diversion occurs in the return to the house of Watson who, after overhearing some pretty crude speculation about rape, attacks her hosts with an axe.
Self-indulgent is hardly the word to describe this scrappy affair, but fans of the group will probably go along with the adolescent humour and raunchy dialogue.
Later on the film veers into a spoof of horror films of another era, when a sleeping Hill is raped by a very horny, red-eyed demon and utters the immortal line originally spoken by Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby: “This isn’t a dream, this is real!" As a result of this indignity, Hill becomes possessed and has to be subjected to an exorcism, again allowing for all kinds of familiar movie references.
Some may deplore the vulgarity and tackiness of this kind of film, mourning the absence of any kind of wit, style or substance. But that’s missing the point; This is the End, shambolic as it is, is a massive in-joke, aimed at a specific fan base that doubtless will embrace it with open arms. For the uninitiated, the rewards are sparse, though Franco’s whole-hearted embrace of the tacky premise deserves a measure of awed admiration.
There’s one thing coy and subversive Mickey Mouse at the core of this is often the top. At its best it’s a movie concerning individuals obtaining lost within the fiction of their own creationsThere’s one thing coy and subversive Mickey Mouse at the core of this is often the top. At its best it’s a movie concerning individuals obtaining lost within the fiction of their own creations
and, once real disaster strikes, having solely their caricatures to shield them.
The characters’ inability to kind themselves out mirrors the movie’s. Goldberg and Rogen valorously plan to offer coherency to a disorganized and splotchy plot that lurches between fireplace and sulphur fantasy and assaulter comedy, as well as a too bad parody of The Exorcist that includes meat device and a spatula as a makeshift cross.
The jokes ar typically pretty sensible, during a smugly amusing navel-gazing reasonably manner. subdued dialogue spans quasi-Seinfeldian conversations to ruminations concerning the goodness of celebrity title, interspersed with moments of fairly innovative self-conscious comedy like a scene during which the celebs swede a Pineapple categorical sequel and a dismissive Danny McBride, upon hearing news of the apocalyptic shit storm production outside, criticises his colleagues for his or her unconvincing deliveries.

If the premise is deliciously appealing, there's one thing equally desperate nonetheless oddly fitting a couple of star-stuffed Hollywood pic that puts nice thought and thought into its setup and uses its final act as a merchandising ground for vibrant nonsense. The loony whims of this is often the End’s plot were perpetually attending to be onerous to bring to a close during a satisfying manner, however ending with a dance off that includes the rear Street Boys doesn’t cut it — during this life or future.