Zoolander, Ben Stiller’s 2001 comedy of vanity (in more ways than one), had a more unfortunate release than Bill Clinton on that blue dress. It opened on September 28th, two weeks after the twin towers fell, during the short span of cultural dark days when decadent Western humor about first world problems like male bulimia and dwarf orgies took on unnatural and unasked for political seriousness. Its dismal performance wasn’t helped by the fact that the entire second half of the movie is about a deranged designer’s sinister plot to assassinate the prime minister of Malaysia at a crowded runway show. In a review that now sounds more like a joke from Team America, Roger Ebert pilloried Zoolander as a prime example of why the terrorists hate us. "There have been articles lately asking why the United States is so hated in some parts of the world. As this week’s Exhibit A from Hollywood, I offer Zoolander," he wrote. To say that in the midst of a national mourning period the public wasn’t in the mood for a male model’s "eugoogoolizing" is a really, really ridiculous understatement.
More justly it didn’t do well in Malaysia—it was deemed "definitely unsuitable" for release there—or in any Asian country, where all utterances of "Malaysia" were redubbed "Micronesia." But it did gain life after box office death, because, as you’re probably aware—especially if you spent any of those intervening years in a dorm—Zoolander is gigantically funny.
Sure, the fashion world is an easy target, though the same could be said of zoos, and from what I gleaned from the Zookeeper trailer, Kevin James basically sits in an Applebee’s booth and binges on cheese sticks with a CGI lion in that movie. Ben Stiller’s character, Derek Zoolander, issues malaprops to the power of Snooki squared. When Matilda, a Time reporter, confesses a bout with bulimia, Zoolander replies, "You can_ read minds_?" Owen Wilson is at his finest as Zoolander’s bro-ish competition-turned-friend, as is Jerry Stiller, playing the head of Zoolander’s agency, who dons a progressively more blinged-out sweatsuit in each scene. Will Ferrell is just unhinged as Mugatu, the "Derelicte" designer who looks like a cross between a Scandinavian death metal singer and a Bravo reality show hair stylist. Most importantly: there are jokes in Zoolander. Real jokes! With punchlines! Written down beforehand! In a script! It’s not like "comedy" now, which more often than not translates to farting schlubs volleying a bong for two and a half hours.
Sadly or not, depending on how much of a fan you are, Stiller’s career since Zoolander has followed the same trajectory as the post 9/11 economy—trending down, with the occasional cheap boosts (see: Meet the Fockers; the Stimulus Package of 2009). Part of the reason he’s so perfect in Zoolander is because playing a self-absorbed runway model translates his major flaw as a comedian into hyperbole. Doesn’t Stiller, with his metal-shopped cheekbones and carefully kept physique (Seriously, Google "Ben Stiller fitness" and on the first page there’s a post that begins in earnest: "I was recently inspired by Ben Stiller’s arms to up my weights at the gym.") give off the impression that he cares a little too much about how he looks? Like, it wouldn’t be shocking, for example, to learn he likes to do bicep curls, naked, in a full-length mirror, grunting loudly and proudly on the upswing. He’s never been quite at home in beta male roles, like museum security guard or male nurse, because there’s definitely a natural Blue Steel-ness about him. Watching him as an unassumingly meek dude feels like watching Paris Hilton play Erin Brockovich. Derek Zoolander was the role he was born to play, that he actually nails, and that unfortunately belonged to a movie that brought in only 10 percent of the box office of that visual Happy Meal, Meet The Fockers.
Here’s hoping for sweet redemption in Twolander.
Lauren Bans is an associate editor at GQ and a graduate of The Derek Zoolander Center For Kids Who Can’t Read Good. Follow her on Twitter, @LaurenBans.