Transcending what objectively qualifies as “a great movie,” there is a rarer film still — a special kind of drug, tonic, and comfort blanket that guarantees a couple hours of escape from punishing reality. In 1999, “Office Space” died at the box office but something about it wouldn’t be denied and on DVD writer/director Mike Judge’s sharp, savage, right-on take of suburban office life found a ready-made audience desperate for that tonic – for anything that proved someone somewhere understood and sympathized with their own personal Cubicle Hell.
It was on a Friday night and I was in the Wal-Mart DVD aisle desperately searching for anything that might help to take the edge off a particularly brutal week of corporate bill collecting when the tagline “Work Sucks” caught my eye. Normally the thought of paying retail would’ve worked against such an impulse buy, but the comfort gained from those two words were alone worth $19.99, and home with me “Office Space” went.
Let me ask you something. When you come in on Monday and you’re not feeling real well, does anyone ever say to you, “Sounds like someone has a case of the Mondays”?No. No, man. Shit, no, man. I believe you’d get your ass kicked sayin’ something like that, man.
For those of you who have never been planted in a cubicle, who have never spent 40 hours a week swallowed by a McOffice Park, suffered through endless office birthday parties, been passively-aggressively terrorized by a Bill Lumbergh, or slogged daily through endless piles of mindless, pointless corporate bull shit created for the sole purpose of being mindless, endless corporate bull shit… For those of you who don’t know what it’s like to hate yourself for worrying about losing a job you loathe… You can’t begin to understand why, after “The Searchers” and “Deuce Bigalow,” the vicarious revenge Mike Judge created just for us ranks as the third greatest movie ever made.
“Oh, and remember: next Friday… is Hawaiian shirt day. So, you know, if you want to, go ahead and wear a Hawaiian shirt and jeans.”
Peter Gibbons, an office drone/software developer played to dull-eyed desperate perfection by Ron Livingston, hates most everything about his existence; the generic apartment, his grating daily commute and most especially the time he spends at Initech where life is one endless cycle of worrying about being asked to work the weekend and this:
Hi Peter. What’s happening? We need to talk about your TPS reports.Yeah. The coversheet. I know, I know. Uh, Bill talked to me about it.
Yeah. Did you get that memo?
Yeah. I got the memo. And I understand the policy. And the problem is just that I forgot the one time. And I’ve already taken care of it so it’s not even really a problem anymore.
Ah! Yeah. It’s just we’re putting new coversheets on all the TPS reports before they go out now. So if you could go ahead and try to remember to do that from now on, that’d be great. All right!
To his credit, Peter is at least wise enough to have figured out ambition is a poison you take yourself and has no desire to advance his way out of Initech. But there is rent to pay, which means he’s stuck at Initech or someplace just as bad … unless of course he wins the lottery, in which case he would do exactly what I dreamt of with each and every scratch off: “… relax … sit on my ass all day …do nothing.” The only problem is that unless that unlikely ship docks, Peter can only see life unspooling in a manner in which a good day is one where his boss Bill Lumbergh (a way beyond brilliant Gary Cole) doesn’t “request” his presence on Saturday.
Oh, oh, and I almost forgot. Ahh, I’m also gonna need you to go ahead and come in on Sunday, too…
The only bright spot in Peter’s day is sneaking off with his fellow cube-bots Samir and Michael Bolton (no, not the singer) and strolling over to Chotchkie’s (one of those obnoxiously-themed restaurant chains that glom on to McOffice Parks like sucker fish on a shark) where from afar he admires Joanna (an all kinds of fetching Jennifer Aniston), a waitress as dissatisfied with her fifteen pieces of flaired existence as Peter. (You know, the Nazis had pieces of flair… that they made the Jews wear.)
Peter: Lumbergh’s gonna have me work on Saturday. I can tell already. I’m gonna end up doing it, because, uh… because I’m a big pussy, which is why I work at Initech to begin with.Michael Bolton: Uh, yeah, well, I work at Initech and I don’t consider myself a pussy, okay?
Samir: Yes, I am also not a pussy.
Anne, Peter’s controlling girlfriend (who’s probably cheating on him), is tired of his increasingly gloomy outlook and drags him into hypnotherapy to get help. As a relaxation exercise, the therapist hypnotizes Peter and essentially orders him not to give a damn. But before he can bring Peter out of the spell, the therapist has a heart attack and a new Peter is born.
I uh, I don’t like my job, and, uh, I don’t think I’m gonna go anymore.You’re just not gonna go?
Yeah.
Won’t you get fired?
I don’t know, but I really don’t like it, and, uh, I’m not gonna go.
Rather than detail and ruin the surprise of what follows, suffice to say it fulfills the non-violent but still very satisfying daydreams every cubicle rat has ever had. In other words: Damn it feels good to be a gangsta’.
The consequence of Peter’s behavior ends up being what you might call counter-intuitive. Instead of his attitude getting him fired, Peter is seen as showing leadership, given a raise and promoted. Unfortunately, Samir and Michael Bolton (no, not the singer) are “downsized” by the “two Bobs,” a couple of hired guns brought in by Initech to “evaluate” everyone’s job.
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After taking revenge on a hated office machine (see above) that only ever produced error messages (Mother… shitter… Son of an… ass. I just…), the trio steals Richard Pryor’s genius idea from “Superman III” and plots an even bigger revenge against Initech — the kind of revenge that might land them in a federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison. All the while, Peter’s new give-a-damn attitude continues to make his dreams come true when he suddenly finds himself free to pursue Joanna after Anne dumps him.
I wanna take you out to dinner, and then I wanna go back to my apartment and watch ‘Kung Fu.’ Do you ever watch ‘Kung Fu’?I love ‘Kung Fu.’
Channel 39.
Totally.
You should come over and watch ‘Kung Fu’ tonight.
Ok.
Besides the terrific performances already mentioned, Stephen Root disappears behind a genius mix of pathetic and creepy as the Swingline stapler-obsessed Milton Waddams. Richard Riehle (who would reach the heights of cinema esteem that very same year as Deuce Biglow’s dad) captures so well those middle-aged guys who do nothing all day beyond perfecting the art of looking busy and vital. As Lawrence, Peter’s construction-worker neighbor wise beyond his I.Q., Diedrich Bader gets most of the bigger laughs.
Another special mention must go out to Gary Cole’s — yeah-that-would-be great — work as Lumbergh. Somehow, in a single iconic performance, Cole brought together the characteristics of every manipulative, obtuse, coffee cup-carrying middle-manager who wouldn’t know an original thought if it kissed him on the mouth. The impact of this performance is so great you don’t realize how few scenes he really has.
For as long as there are soul-numbing commutes, sad little men in business-casual dying slowly under flickering fluorescents, and chirpy secretaries who define their existence planning that day’s office party, “Office Space” will live on because Judge brought this world to life with both penetrating insight and a sincere, good-natured sense of humor that never condescends but only sympathizes. Most important, in his delivery, Judge understood that you don’t have to exaggerate that which is already exaggerated.
In my day I’ve worked for more than my share of Lumberghs, with too many office supply-obsessed Miltons, and sang Happy Birthday to more people I loathe than I care to remember. Come Friday night, “Office Space” was my palate cleanser, my spirit guide, and my way to wash off the stain of the work week and begin another two day countdown to the next case of the Mondays.
Yes, by that objective standard, there are plenty of “superior” films.
But how many of those help to get us through? Or introduced us to the O Face?
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