'Saturday Night' review: Jason Reitman's 'SNL' love letter is more infuriating than fun

As its 50th anniversary nears, Saturday Night Live is unquestionably an institution, not only in comedy or in late-night TV but in American pop culture itself. It has launched countless comedians, cemented the arrival of up-and-coming musical acts, spawned iconic characters, and even influenced politics, through its much-covered casting and guest stars.

With his new movie Saturday Night, co-writer/director Jason Reitman — whose films range from the superb coming-of-age comedy Juno and the provocative mid-life dramedy Tully to the the horrid reboot Ghostbusters: Afterlife — wants you to remember back when SNL was a scrappy sketch show stocked with counterculture comedians, signifying a major risk for NBC and the show's creator, Lorne Michaels.  

With Saturday Night (a nod to the the show's original title, NBC's Saturday Night), Reitman and screenwriter Gil Kenan (Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire co-writer/director) dug through the Saturday Night Live archives for anecdotes, fun facts, and Easter eggs to reimagine that first landmark night. Set over the course of the 90 minutes leading up to showtime, this film aims to capture the manic mayhem, creative conflicts, soul-crushing obstacles, and larger-than-life personalities that contributed to Saturday Night Live's birth. And it fails. 

Concentrating the massiveness of SNL into one film about its premiere is a boldly ambitious project. At the film's premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival, Reitman noted in his curtain speech that the movie contains over 80 speaking parts. One might admire the filmmaker's passion, but that's also the problem. Reitman, who spent a week as a guest writer on Saturday Night Live in 2008, is a devotee of the church of SNL. As such, Saturday Night is so stuffed with impressions and nostalgic callbacks that it's not much of a movie at all.

Saturday Night throws down a ticking clock that doesn't work. 

Beginning on the sidewalk in front of NBC's Manhattan studios, Saturday Night shows Lorne Michaels (The Fabelmans' Gabriel LaBelle) fretting to an NBC page (Stranger Things' Finn Wolfhard), who is trying unsuccessfully to lure an audience into this free, live comedy show. From there, the film will follow Lorne almost constantly as he dips into the set still under construction, stressful meet-and-greets with network execs, literally explosive rehearsals, an intense control room, and a fateful dive bar, all before the metaphorical curtain rises on his show. 

To enhance the tension, Reitman injects title cards that announce the time, counting down until the live show kicks off — or fails to launch entirely. But there's a prequel-like problem here in that we all know how this ends. Occasionally, this works as a visual gag, like when the camera cuts to the time just after a particularly anxiety-ridden moment as a mocking reminder. But as the film drags on with less story and more and more SNL fluff, this device turns on the viewer, reminding us how much of this movie we still have to sit through.

Saturday Night delivers a cavalcade of impressions. 

As teased in the film's first trailer, Saturday Night throws a bunch of young Hollywood stars into the shoes of SNL's earliest icons, like Gilda Radner (Ella Hunt), Chevy Chase (May December standout Cory Michael Smith), Garrett Morris (Lamorne Morris), John Belushi (Matt Wood), Dan Aykroyd (Dylan O'Brien), and Jane Curtin (Kim Matula). Also in the mix are the likes of Billy Crystal (Nicholas Podany), George Carlin (Matthew Rhys), Jim Henson, and Andy Kaufman (the last two both played by Cat Person's Nicholas Braun). 

To Reitman's credit, his cast ably captures the dynamic energy of the Not Ready For Prime Time Players. Hunt has Radner's childlike verve. Wood captures Belushi's wounded ego and belligerent brand of physical comedy. O'Brien nails the macho arrogance of Aykroyd, along with his signature Canadian cadence. Recent Emmy–winner Lamorne Morris brings a sophisticated smoothness to Garrett Morris, who calls out anti-Black racism on set and lights a cigarette on a flaming piece of fallen lighting equipment with equal swagger.

Podany as Crystal is so dead-on in pitch that the comedian is recognizable from voice alone. Rhys harnesses Carlin's wrath; Matula nails Curtin's crisp comedic timing. In his dual role, Braun capably shifts from the soft-voiced pleading of Henson to the high-pitched buffoonery of Kaufman doing his "thank you very much" shtick. The standout in this group, however, is Cory Michael Smith as Chevy Chase, and that's probably because he's the one who gets the closest thing to a character arc. Cocky, caustic, yet undeniably charismatic, Chase acts like he owns 30 Rock as soon as he enters frame. Smith owns the stride, smirk, and silliness that was Chase's signature. But sparks fly when he comes face-to-face with a bigger star with an even bigger ego. 

Saturday Night finds a great villain in J.K. Simmons as Milton Berle. 

Reitman and Kenan's script hinges on the conflict between the Golden Age of comedy versus the new revolutionaries. As such, Lorne faces off against snarling NBC executive David Tebet (Willem Dafoe), and takes a call from a derisive Johnny Carson (an uncredited role that's also the worst impersonation in the film). But most menacing of all is Berle, a well-established comedian who has his own variety show on NBC, which the movie regards as flashy hackery.

Berle prowls Lorne's studio like a predator searching for easy prey, riling the talent and brazenly hitting on Chevy's fiancée, Jacqueline Carlin (Kaia Gerber). This leads to the film's most exciting exchange, where two equal forces of braggadocio face off with a battle of wits that is absolutely crass and cunning. Incredibly, it's Berle who gets the movie's best punchline, involving a bit of wordplay about a choice "comeback" and Chevy's mom. Perhaps that wasn't what Reitman intended, and Simmons just delivered the hell out of that line. Perhaps this moment — which leaves even Chevy Chase speechless — is meant to reflect the uphill battle SNL had ahead of them. Regardless, it's bizarre when a non-SNL figure gets the biggest laugh in your SNL movie.

Rachel Sennott shines, despite an underwritten role.

Sennott, who has awed critics and audiences in such heralded comedies as Shiva Baby, Bodies Bodies Bodies, and Bottoms, unsurprisingly delivers one of the best performances in Saturday Night, despite her part being horrifically written. 

Sennott plays Rosie Shuster, an Emmy–winning comedy writer whose stint on Saturday Night Live ran from 1975 to 1988; she had a hand in bringing together the cast that would be in the show's first season, as well as many now-classic characters and sketches. She was also married to Lorne Michael from 1967 to 1980, and Saturday Night is much more focused on this latter bit. It's not just that Reitman and Kenan's script treats her like Lorne's sidekick, someone who can dole out advice or a pep talk with equal readiness. It's that the longest bit of dialogue she's given in this movie is doggedly explaining exactly who she is to Lorne, detailing their courtship, relationship, and sex life to Dan Aykroyd in a tedious walk-and-talk.

Reitman overloads the film with such cinematic devices. Far from bringing the excitement or tension of The West Wing to Saturday Night, repeated walk-and-talks reveal little new information visually and make overlong sequences impossible to cut down. A perfect example of Reitman's reliance on this technique is a drug trip experienced by a tertiary character who winds about in mounting panic; it's a detour that tries our patience with no escape. This is true of much of Saturday Night, which is overloaded with tidbits that are potentially fun or nostalgic, but with so little cohesion that this love letter feels more like a rant.  It's left to the talented ensemble cast to keep things together, narratively speaking. While Sennott is beguiling with her trademark crooked grin and skill for biting banter, the role of Rosie is regressive, existing chiefly to inform the audience about Lorne. 

This is especially dismaying when you look back at Reitman's filmography. Juno, Young Adult, and Tully all had complex female characters who were funny and fleshed out! Notably, Reitman directed but didn't write any of those movies; Diablo Cody wrote them. Without her, it seems Reitman loses track of women's autonomy. But here, he loses track of much, much more.

Saturday Night fails to thrill or be all that funny. 

In writing the script, Reitman and Kenan made some liberal changes from the facts of the matter. They include sketches and behind-the-scenes anecdotes that weren't a part of that first episode, and even cut an entire cast member from the story because his presence would have put the lie to their generational conflict. (Sorry to George Coe!) Such changes could be excused as poetic license in pursuit of good storytelling — if it actually added up to good storytelling.

Like Saturday Night Live, this movie is a frenzied collection of scenes. Some work, but many don't, primarily because of how this script chips away at others in service of Lorne. While weaving around sets and silliness, Saturday Night above all else paints Lorne Michaels as a creative genius. His main flaw is that he can't communicate his vision to basically anyone, which creates a domino effect of fighting, screaming, and violence. But far from recognizing these as consequences of Lorne's mercurial leadership, Saturday Night is infuriatingly conventional, excusing the shitty behavior of a famous man because he makes something that is popular.

The film treats Lorne as an underdog, put upon by powerful forces that refuse to acknowledge his (yet to be remotely proven) greatness. It's a tiresome, thin argument as it ever was. And in holding him up, Saturday Night reduces the female characters around Lorne to hasty sketches of the women they represent. The well-documented, damaging sexism on that set is addressed only by a tongue-in-cheek rehearsal of a famous sketch, where the female players turn the male gaze on a womanizing Aykroyd, to the amusement of the crew. Essentially, the actual sexism of early SNL is laughed off. 

It's not that any movie could be expected to capture the complexity of early Saturday Night Live. But in capturing that first night, Reitman reduces Gilda Radner to a smile, Jane Curtin to a smirk, Laraine Newman (Emily Fairn) to a running gag about quick changes, and Rosie Shuster to a sidekick.

Further confounding, Reitman spends a gratuitous amount of time building the film's finale, literally brick by brick in a tedious metaphor. Then, he fumbles the turning point that brings this motley crew of chaotic individuals together into an ensemble. What saves the day is not a group scene. It's not a collaboration. It's the re-creation of a solo bit that's not even from an SNL cast member, and which didn't air until later in the season.

In the end, Saturday Night is not an ode to Saturday Night Live. It's a fawning portrait of the men of Saturday Night Live, who are granted punchlines, complexity, and character arcs, while their female counterparts are left with scraps. Longtime lovers of the show may find reason enough to soldier through Reitman's aggravating fanboying over Lorne and the guys. But assembling such a promising cast, looking back on such a pivotal moment in American entertainment, and offering this? It's a punchline that doesn't land. 

Saturday Night was reviewed out of its Canadian Premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival. The movie has since shown at Fantastic Fest as a secret screening. Saturday Night opens in select theaters on Sept. 27 and expands nationwide on Oct. 11.