Peter Dinklage deserves better. The undersized actor, most famous for his roles in The Station Agent and Underdog, is back reprising his turn as a half-pint home wrecker in the 2010 remake of 2007's Death at a Funeral. This time around, instead of stiff upper lipped Brits he's mingling with F-bomb dropping African Americans, equally uptight urbanites dealing with such farcical funereal issues as bigotry, childlessness, recreational pharmaceuticals, old man diarrhea, Caucasian nudity, and a lack of potato salad. Unfortunately, even with the same screenwriter (Dean Craig) in tow, what worked across the Atlantic less than three years ago droops over and "dies" on its trip to the colonies.
Frustrated writer/tax accountant Aaron (Chris Rock) is on pins and needles. It's his beloved father's funeral and everyone is making demands of him. There's the wife (Regina Hall) who feels her biological clock unwinding and wants a baby pronto. There's the mother (Loretta Devine) who won't forgive him for leaving her without a grandchild. There's the bestselling author brother (Martin Lawrence) who represents everything he wants to be. And there's also the friend of the family (Tracy Morgan) who's more concerned about the rash on his wrist than helping out. Add in an angry aging uncle (Danny Glover), a cousin (Zoe Saldana) who can't get her prejudiced dad (Ron Glass) to accept her white fiancé (James Marsden), and a mysterious diminutive man (Dinklage) who's making some wild accusations about the deceased, and you've got enough headaches to have our hero thinking about an early grave.
Death at a Funeral is a comedy of contrivances. Its wit is not drawn from character or creative manipulation of recognizable situations. Instead, director Neil LaBute cracks open the standard issue stereotypes (hapless hypochondriac, stoned interloper, egomaniacal success story, loud mouthed buttinski) and pools them together into one massive motion picture disappointment. With a company led by Rock, Lawrence, and Morgan, you expect something edgier, more honed from their decades as wildly successful stand-ups. Instead, the script by returning scribe Craig breaks out the obvious laugh getters (a hand full of feces, a drugged out guy acting goofy, butt-centric public nakedness) and waits for the snickers.
It's as if everyone is on hold here, required to pause from their regular routine of curse-laden social commentary and play nice. At least original director Frank Oz recognized the inherent dark humor in the piece and played it up nicely. The UK version seemed sick and twisted. Americanized, Death at a Funeral feels weak and inadequate. The closest LaBute can come to controversy is turning Dinklage's blackmailer into a repetitive sexual innuendo. His proclivities and how they affect the plot are about as close to scandalous as this movie gets. Even grumpy old man Glover's sailor mouth can't save the day.
Marsden does sort of steal the showboating as the anxious boyfriend who accidentally drops "acid acid" thinking it's Valium. He's so convincing as the walking waste case that the rest of the movie can't keep up. Morgan is just the opposite - motor-mouthed and scattered, unable to recognize when a riff has gone on too long. He's the Energizer Bunny of unfunny. As the narrative guide, Rock is given little to do, and Lawrence's insolvent lech is wildly one dimensional. With shoulder shrug turns from Owen Wilson and Avatar's Saldana, Death at a Funeral becomes its own unwelcome wake. In the end, it's the audience who should be grieving.
Frustrated writer/tax accountant Aaron (Chris Rock) is on pins and needles. It's his beloved father's funeral and everyone is making demands of him. There's the wife (Regina Hall) who feels her biological clock unwinding and wants a baby pronto. There's the mother (Loretta Devine) who won't forgive him for leaving her without a grandchild. There's the bestselling author brother (Martin Lawrence) who represents everything he wants to be. And there's also the friend of the family (Tracy Morgan) who's more concerned about the rash on his wrist than helping out. Add in an angry aging uncle (Danny Glover), a cousin (Zoe Saldana) who can't get her prejudiced dad (Ron Glass) to accept her white fiancé (James Marsden), and a mysterious diminutive man (Dinklage) who's making some wild accusations about the deceased, and you've got enough headaches to have our hero thinking about an early grave.
Death at a Funeral is a comedy of contrivances. Its wit is not drawn from character or creative manipulation of recognizable situations. Instead, director Neil LaBute cracks open the standard issue stereotypes (hapless hypochondriac, stoned interloper, egomaniacal success story, loud mouthed buttinski) and pools them together into one massive motion picture disappointment. With a company led by Rock, Lawrence, and Morgan, you expect something edgier, more honed from their decades as wildly successful stand-ups. Instead, the script by returning scribe Craig breaks out the obvious laugh getters (a hand full of feces, a drugged out guy acting goofy, butt-centric public nakedness) and waits for the snickers.
It's as if everyone is on hold here, required to pause from their regular routine of curse-laden social commentary and play nice. At least original director Frank Oz recognized the inherent dark humor in the piece and played it up nicely. The UK version seemed sick and twisted. Americanized, Death at a Funeral feels weak and inadequate. The closest LaBute can come to controversy is turning Dinklage's blackmailer into a repetitive sexual innuendo. His proclivities and how they affect the plot are about as close to scandalous as this movie gets. Even grumpy old man Glover's sailor mouth can't save the day.
Marsden does sort of steal the showboating as the anxious boyfriend who accidentally drops "acid acid" thinking it's Valium. He's so convincing as the walking waste case that the rest of the movie can't keep up. Morgan is just the opposite - motor-mouthed and scattered, unable to recognize when a riff has gone on too long. He's the Energizer Bunny of unfunny. As the narrative guide, Rock is given little to do, and Lawrence's insolvent lech is wildly one dimensional. With shoulder shrug turns from Owen Wilson and Avatar's Saldana, Death at a Funeral becomes its own unwelcome wake. In the end, it's the audience who should be grieving.
