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Few cinematic experiences are more depressing than an
unfunny comedy. Bad films from other genres might at least amuse us, however
unintentionally. But when comedy fails, a little part of your soul dies. You
sit there, watching the performers wipe away the flop sweat as their endeavor
deflates like a cow pie in the sun, and just feel awful for everyone involved.
You can't even mock it properly; once you finish pointing out how much the
jokes suck, there's literally nothing left to say.
MacGruber illustrates this very point, to its supreme detriment. It supposedly sends up the cheesy action movies of the 1980s, skewering their imbecilic conventions in its tale of a mullet-sporting nitwit who thinks he's tougher than he is. Not only does it fail to engender any laughs, but its ostensible targets pretty much make their own gravy anyway. Watching it leaves you pining for the likes of Cobra or Invasion USA, because they're actually a lot funnier than this. When faced with this fact, one's urge to weep becomes well nigh overwhelming.
And yet MacGruber soldiers doggedly onwards, as ignorant as its hero about how poorly it does its job. The title character began as a one-joke throwaway on Saturday Night Live: a would-be gadgeteer who builds useful objects from junk the way MacGyver did back in the day. He sucks at it and ends up blowing himself up. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. In order to spin that out into a feature-length film, actor/co-writer Will Forte gives the character an abrasive personality based loosely on Will Ferrell's idiot man-children, but without one-tenth of their charm or appeal. He brags about his killing prowess, threatens those he perceives as challengers (notably Ryan Phillippe's put-upon straight man), completely bungles whatever plan he has in mind, then sits on the ground and weeps like a little girl.
Forte clearly intends the character to deflate all those macho action stereotypes from the Reagan Era; instead, he leaves us only with a burning desire to see MacGruber beaten like a rented mule, then shot in the head behind some back alley crackhouse. Would it be funnier? No, but it would be infinitely more satisfying. Sadly, we have to watch him lurch his way through a hackneyed would-be parody, as Val Kilmer's sinister Von Cunth (get it?!) steals a nuclear missile in order to blow up Washington. MacGruber comes out of monastic retirement to stop him while wooing former unrequited lover Vicki St. Elmo (Kristen Wiig) in the process.
Wiig actually gets most of the film's few laughs, thanks to a good sense of timing and a couple of decent visual gags. The remainder of the cast is largely at sea, however, hampered by limp jokes and a director (Jorma Taccone) without the first idea how to capitalize on their comedic talents. Watching Kilmer thrash his way through this drek stands as one of the most disheartening moments of the year; few actors can be funnier when they set their minds to it, and yet MacGruber leaves him with nothing to work with but a periodic sneer and a truly tasteless anatomy joke towards the end.
Indeed, the filmmakers seem happy to reach for tastelessness when genuine inspiration fails them, ranging from the usual array of body humor to some surprisingly crude violence. Forte has no problems repeating any joke that he thinks is a winner, further emphasizing the dearth of ideas on display. Most shocking of all is the apparent good buzz the film received following a screening at South by Southwest this year. Whatever those critics were on, it clearly made for a better experience than the rest of us had. The distributor's decision to delay most press screenings until the night before its release is a more accurate gauge of the comedic sinkhole on display here. Saturday Night Live sketches have produced the tiniest fraction of good movies (two at last count), which gives the others just enough hope to believe they can pull it off. MacGruber stumbles its way to the ignominious depths of that already questionable genre: unable to tell where the comedy ends and the pathos begins.
MacGruber illustrates this very point, to its supreme detriment. It supposedly sends up the cheesy action movies of the 1980s, skewering their imbecilic conventions in its tale of a mullet-sporting nitwit who thinks he's tougher than he is. Not only does it fail to engender any laughs, but its ostensible targets pretty much make their own gravy anyway. Watching it leaves you pining for the likes of Cobra or Invasion USA, because they're actually a lot funnier than this. When faced with this fact, one's urge to weep becomes well nigh overwhelming.
And yet MacGruber soldiers doggedly onwards, as ignorant as its hero about how poorly it does its job. The title character began as a one-joke throwaway on Saturday Night Live: a would-be gadgeteer who builds useful objects from junk the way MacGyver did back in the day. He sucks at it and ends up blowing himself up. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. In order to spin that out into a feature-length film, actor/co-writer Will Forte gives the character an abrasive personality based loosely on Will Ferrell's idiot man-children, but without one-tenth of their charm or appeal. He brags about his killing prowess, threatens those he perceives as challengers (notably Ryan Phillippe's put-upon straight man), completely bungles whatever plan he has in mind, then sits on the ground and weeps like a little girl.
Forte clearly intends the character to deflate all those macho action stereotypes from the Reagan Era; instead, he leaves us only with a burning desire to see MacGruber beaten like a rented mule, then shot in the head behind some back alley crackhouse. Would it be funnier? No, but it would be infinitely more satisfying. Sadly, we have to watch him lurch his way through a hackneyed would-be parody, as Val Kilmer's sinister Von Cunth (get it?!) steals a nuclear missile in order to blow up Washington. MacGruber comes out of monastic retirement to stop him while wooing former unrequited lover Vicki St. Elmo (Kristen Wiig) in the process.
Wiig actually gets most of the film's few laughs, thanks to a good sense of timing and a couple of decent visual gags. The remainder of the cast is largely at sea, however, hampered by limp jokes and a director (Jorma Taccone) without the first idea how to capitalize on their comedic talents. Watching Kilmer thrash his way through this drek stands as one of the most disheartening moments of the year; few actors can be funnier when they set their minds to it, and yet MacGruber leaves him with nothing to work with but a periodic sneer and a truly tasteless anatomy joke towards the end.
Indeed, the filmmakers seem happy to reach for tastelessness when genuine inspiration fails them, ranging from the usual array of body humor to some surprisingly crude violence. Forte has no problems repeating any joke that he thinks is a winner, further emphasizing the dearth of ideas on display. Most shocking of all is the apparent good buzz the film received following a screening at South by Southwest this year. Whatever those critics were on, it clearly made for a better experience than the rest of us had. The distributor's decision to delay most press screenings until the night before its release is a more accurate gauge of the comedic sinkhole on display here. Saturday Night Live sketches have produced the tiniest fraction of good movies (two at last count), which gives the others just enough hope to believe they can pull it off. MacGruber stumbles its way to the ignominious depths of that already questionable genre: unable to tell where the comedy ends and the pathos begins.
