As part of Complex Pop Culture's year-in-review coverage, staffers will pen short pieces on what deflated their highest expectations and hopes the most in 2013. This series kicks off with staff writer Tara Aquino.
More than anything else that happened to me this year, Super Fun Night shattered me. I had crazy high hopes for Rebel Wilson. The kind of delusional hopes you have at the blackjack table in Vegas.
When Pitch Perfect came out last year, I pushed that shit like crazy, even gifting it to two grown-ass men who otherwise wouldn't buy the movie. I'd tell people, "She's Hollywood's next big thing! Just watch!" When she was set to host the MTV Movie Awards, I said to myself, "Her time to shine!" But the telecast ended up looking like producers fell asleep in the control room. Not that it's her fault, but it sucked. "Next time," I said. "Next time."
The next time being Super Fun Night, her self-produced sitcom about Wilson and her nerdy lady friends vowing to live it up every weekend. Passed on by CBS the year before, the show ended up at ABC. Considering the network's successful bet on Modern Family, the fact that it picked up the sitcom showed promise. However, over the summer, scathing reviews of Super Fun Night's pilot started pouring in, and a couple weeks before its debut, producers decided to premiere with episode two. Red flag.
What I watched wasn't the Wilson I fell in love with in Bridesmaids. She was the Disney-fied version, relegated to PG fat jokes. Wilson has expressed her frustration with network censorship before, explaining how she'd have to fight the studio for racier lines and scenes to air. It shows. The jokes are so stale that you can't even make yourself smile through them.
As of now, Super Fun Night, which currently has a 33% on Rotten Tomatoes, hasn't been renewed for a second season, but it will run through January. Makes sense, considering that watching the show while knowing Wilson's raunchy brand of comedy is like expecting Scotch but choking on apple juice instead.
This feeling, I can imagine, is akin to watching your child bomb the dance recital you've seen them practice for over and over again. It stings. It's kind of embarrassing. It's seriously heartbreaking. At the same time, all you can do is fake a smile, cheer 'em on, and tell 'em, "You'll get 'em next time, kid!"
Rebel Wilson will get 'em next time. I know she will. Maybe on premium cable.
Written by Tara Aquino (@t_akino)