The Film Buffa Reviews: Do John Cena and Zac Efron bring 'Ricky Stanicky' to life?
Peter Farrelly has seen better days as a director and laugh creator.
Late night, not fresh at all fast food isn’t completely worthless. You’ll contemplate swallowing that final bite of the smashed together double cheeseburger or those crunchy fries, but in the end only the wrapper will see life in the trash can. It’s not what you intended to receive, but had a feeling about when you ordered.
That’s the best way to describe the new comedy, Ricky Stanicky. Gosh it means well and has a couple laugh-out-loud moments, but you end up wanting to call most of the actors’ agents asking for reasons to do it. Who drugged Zac Efron into revisiting his fresh out of High School Musical role selection? His main character is super stiff, whiny, uninteresting, and could have been played a whole lot better by a young Owen Wilson. Following The Iron Claw up with this lifeless performance is a weak showing.
He’s out of his element and given little to do as the ringleader of three friends who did a bunch of bad shit when they were young, blaming it all on a made-up fella named… Ricky Stanicky. Since stupid lies age like the knees of offensive linemen, the grown-ups have to convince their wives and whispering family members that Ricky is indeed real. On a whim, they offer the chatty muscle head, actor wannabe (a slumming yet still game John Cena) they just met and berated in Vegas the role of a lifetime.
Whatever you think may happen afterwards does indeed happen, so there’s no need to rehash how a frozen pizza is assembled. It’s extra cheesy, and not in a Gouda way. William H. Macy may seem bored most of the time as Efron’s boss, but he is given a truly funny scene that has to do with how one uses their hands while giving a speech. That kind of humor is what made the Farrelly Brothers a Hollywood staple back then: sick, gross-out comedy that still makes you laugh even if it borders on cringe. Franks and Beans!
Stanicky needed more of that ballsy writing and jokes than the diet Farrelly drink that Amazon Prime customers got served this weekend. This is the movie you turn on at 10 p.m. knowing full well you’re not making it through the whole thing on the first watch. At the very least, it’s something to watch while sick and motionless.
With the cast, you’d expect more. But they’ll too bored to give a better performance.
Film Buffa Rating: If it’s still there after eight scroll-downs and six scans to the right of the menu, then click on it. But if you never see this one in your life, it won’t be a bad thing.
Before I leave, a few other things floating out in the ether:
~For Cardinals fans wondering if the departed Tyler O’Neill will swat 30 homers in the small Fenway tank, why worry at all? He’s gone. The trade was a good one for each side, because the team didn’t need another year of the position player version of Jack Flaherty boggling their minds, or the fans’ expectations. He’s more streaky than consistent, producing one year worth bragging about in six-plus attempts. He’s hurt too much, and struggles to slug .400 some years. If he hits those homers in Boston, it’s only because he was in that ballpark. Let players go, folks.
~A quick Oscars preview may be written later this afternoon, but let’s pop a few things here just in case I start drinking and think about typing less as Monday looms. I do think Oppenheimer is going to clean up tonight. It feels right and is an exceptional piece of work by an exceptional filmmaker in Christopher Nolan. Upsets may come from Paul Giamatti or Jeffrey Wright in Best Actor, but the ballot will get an atomic bomb dropped on them tonight. I would love to see Da’Vine Joy Randolph and Sterling K. Brown win, even if I do have a mad Robert Downey Jr. crush.
~I happen to think Emily Blunt is wholly awesome and gives the best interviews. Along with a sharp resume of ass-kicking roles, she’s just a lovely presence during press tours and big events like the Oscars. They need more outspoken and hilarious (without being preachy) personalities like Mrs. Blunt.
~The St. Louis Blues are having Shitbreak issues on the ice. Instead of having to go home to take a shit during school like Finch in American Pie, they’re busy averaging 1.50 goals per game. Good for the cellar of the NHL and a stinky road sign that Doug Armstrong could lose his job before John Mozeliak. It’s his bed the team is currently washing themselves with shit in.
That’s all. Enjoy the beautiful day. If you do, the wrath of Monday morning can’t hurt you as much. Soak life up with good times. Oh, one more thing: do you have any extra Skittles?