>>REVIEW
TALLADEGA NIGHTS: THE BALLAD OF RICKY BOBBY
STARRING Will Ferrell, John C. Reilly and Gary Cole
DIRECTED BY Adam McKay
Opens Friday, August 4
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The news that Talladega Nights features not one, but two scenes in which a screaming Will Ferrell runs around in his underwear will make you think one of two things. Your options are: "Gee, that sounds entertaining, hilarious and quite possibly heartwarming – gimme some of that tighty-whitey comedy action!" or "Does he really have to do that in every movie he makes? And what’s with all the screaming? Is he in pain? Am I in pain? Maybe I should stay home and re-read Proust instead."
Both responses are valid. Reuniting Ferrell with his Anchorman co-writer and director Adam McKay, Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby does not represent a departure from formula. Like its predecessor, it’s a sprawling series of sketches in search of a storyline. If anything, Talladega Nights is even more indifferent to the demands of conventional movie narrative – it starts, trundles along for 90 minutes or so, then ends. When the blooper reel shows up during the credits, you may wonder why McKay didn’t just include the flubbed takes in the film itself – it wouldn’t have disturbed the flow since the movie doesn’t have any.
Yet as every fan of no-brow, guy-screaming-in-underpants comedy understands, none of this really matters if Talladega Nights brings the funny. And yes, it does. Ferrell plays Ricky Bobby, a cocky, boneheaded NASCAR star whose reign at the top is ended by the arrival of a gay French driver (Sacha Baron Cohen, deploying an accent even worse than Steve Martin’s in The Pink Panther). After Ricky crashes his car and loses his spot on the team (and his wife) to his even dumber best pal Cal (John C. Reilly), he retreats to his mother’s house and tries to regain his edge with the help of his long-estranged father (a brilliant Gary Cole).
That every conversation will eventually collapse into gibberish, non-sequiturs and ’70s and ’80s pop-culture references is a given. But it’s churlish to complain when the strategy yields such gold nuggets as Ricky and Cal’s theological discussion on why it’s better to pray to the baby "Christmas Jesus" than the bearded adult version. When a doctor tells Cal that Ricky’s post-crash injuries are merely psychosomatic, his buddy replies, "When you say ‘psychosomatic,’ you mean he could start fires with his thoughts?" An intense exchange with his rival Jean Girard prompts Ricky to say, "I feel like I’m in Highlander." When Girard says he doesn’t know "zees" film, Ricky tells him it won the Academy Award "for best movie ever made." Even just the sight of Ricky in a vintage Crystal Gayle T-shirt was enough to level me.
Again, Ferrell is wise to surround himself with comedic performers who can provide the surprises that his shtick no longer does. Along with Cole, Cohen and Reilly, there are great assists by Jane Lynch as Ricky’s mom, Michael Clarke Duncan as his pit-crew captain, Molly Shannon as a permanently sloshed team owner’s wife and Junebug’s Amy Adams as Ricky’s assistant. Their enjoyment is obvious and infectious. So, while Talladega Nights is too slapdash and scattershot to achieve much in the way of greatness, it’s well worth enduring the sight of Ferrell’s skivvies two more times. |
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