Oh, this photo shoot. I don’t have a problem with provocative humor, but I prefer it when it’s got a clever spin to it – something beyond a basic Beavis-like chortle: Heh-heh, droid three-way — and my beef is that I can’t really find that here in this package. This is just… Star Wars fever meets Trainwreck meets people’s incessant fascination with whether Amy Schumer is a trainwreck, with the smallest drizzle of that feeling you get when you watch Showgirls and realize Elizabeth Berkeley is not on everyone else’s page. Like, is Amy Schumer still controlling whatever this joke is, or is she — however unintentionally — becoming the butt of it? Some of the pics are at least benign in their semi-pointlessness, like the cantina recast as something out of Coyote Ugly, or Princess Leia in a cab with her iPhone and her entourage, but they’re just the filling in a club sandwich where the bread is made of EYEROLL.
The cover itself is fine — dumb, sure, but it doesn’t bother me quite like some of the inside pics. Can’t Amy Schumer be the funniest person in the galaxy without fellating a light sabre? Please? Her sketches are incisive and insightful. Is this? I don’t really think so. It’s more like something an editor was yearning for an excuse to do because he grew up with a poster of Leia in that bikini on his bedroom ceiling, and once wrote a Listicle about how C-3P0 experiences pleasure. I know Amy built her career on the back of a certain fearless raunch, with jokes about sex and all manner of other things, and she did a mock version of this at GQ’s behest with saucy cover lines that appear to poke fun at the lad-mag genre (in which the Trainwreck Amy works). So maybe you could argue the art direction itself is an affectionate mockery of the medium. The problem is, if that was the case, it didn’t translate. It doesn’t really FEEL like parody. Rather, it transmits as a wannabe-titillating stunt that undercuts the compliment they’re paying her. I wish the validity of a woman’s comedy resume didn’t so often hinge on her readiness to pander to this crowd. Amy obviously may not care, of course; she’s doing fine for herself, and if this is genuinely her jam, then great, live your bliss. But I wonder if it’s ever EXHAUSTING. And the risk is that this box becomes the only place anyone wants to put you. I get that playing into it has gotten her this far, but sometimes when you pile on, all you get is clutter.