By
Al Kratina
August 25, 2006 - 15:38
|
There are some things in my life that I’m not proud of. I own a few more Type O Negative CDs than I should probably admit. For a time I used the think that herpes was a fun thing to give people for Christmas. However, I’d rather admit to all of those things than write about how I liked Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. Sadly, however, what I lack in moral fiber, I make up for with journalistic integrity, so I’m afraid that’s what I’ll have to do here.
See the problem I have with Will Ferrell is not that he’s not funny. He’s exactly as funny as a guy who doesn’t tell any actual jokes can be. He gets into a character and reacts honestly and absurdly, and that’s where the comedy lies. And that's perfectly valid, and probably much more difficult that putting on a stupid voice and being Adam Sandler. It doesn’t even matter to me that his character is always exactly the same, that Ron Burgundy just shaved and put on a jump suit to star in Talladega Nights. It’s just that Will Ferrell’s brand of comedy inspires Will Ferrell movies, where everybody cracks up in the script meeting and then just decides to show up on set with a character, a love interest, and a ghost of story and see what happens. What happens is that you get an 80-minute movie with 4 hours of nonsensical outtakes for the DVD. I have nothing against improv comedy, but mainstream film has traditionally been a medium of structure and storytelling, and I’d rather see those conventions broken by design rather than the sheer laziness exhibited in Kicking & Screaming.
However, in Talladega Nights, some thought has apparently been put initially appears to be a rehash of the admittedly funny yet soullessly empty Anchorman is actually a loving satire of American culture, well-conceived, well-developed, and fully realized. It’s not as sly as some would have you believe, but the fun it pokes at its target is gentle and kind, barely exhibiting the kind of contempt you would expect from a movie about Nascar written by over-educated New Yorkers. Director Adam McKay even adds some flourishes to the racing sequences and some of the scenes to suggest that he’s above the point-and-shoot mentality of most American comedy directors.
As for the performances, well, Will Ferrell has mastered being Will Ferrell, and shows no signs of flagging here. As usual, it’s the supporting cast that keeps things moving, notably John C. Reilly as Ferrell’s wing-, or, I suppose stupid-looking-car-with-eyesore-decals-man, and the great Gary Cole as Ferrell’s layabout father. Sasha Baron Cohen is somewhat disappointing as Ferrell’s racing nemesis Jean Girrard, concentrating mainly on putting on a terrible accent and talking through his stunted, mutant teeth rather than being funny, but that can be forgiven. Andy Richter puts in a brief cameo, and Michael Clarke Duncan tries gamely to fit in, but still looks as if he should be fighting Kareem Abdul Jabbar in Conan The Destroyer instead of mucking about broad comedy. All in all, Talladega Nights may have shown me that there’s hope yet for mass-market American humor. But I still don’t want to admit it.
ComicBookBin
