| TALLADEGA NIGHTS The Ballad of Ricky Bobby |
 2006 - USADirector: Adam McKay
- Reviewed by Vickie
Ferrell is Ricky Bobby, the simple-minded but lightning-fast NASCAR driver at the heart of the film. His is a racing rags-to-riches story about a former pit-crew worker who took his one shot at glory and drove away with it to become a renowned speedster. Along with his on-track acclaim comes a vast amount of money, publicity and a token trophy wife, Carley (Leslie Bibb). Along for the ride is Ricky’s best friend from childhood, Cal Naughton Jr. (John C. Reilly), a fellow racer who’s spent his life standing in the shadow of Ricky Bobby’s perpetual first-place finishes. But the Ricky Bobby empire comes tumbling down with the arrival of Formula One legend Jean Girard (Sacha Baron Cohen), who hops across the pond from France and promptly tells Ricky that he’s going to kick his white-trashy ass. Not surprisingly, their single-race encounter results in a debilitating setback for Ricky Bobby, who goes from hero to zero in a heartbeat and has to spend the rest of the movie clawing his way back to the top…and to his (relative) sanity. Talladega Nights works because, for the most part, it’s just unapologetically silly. Ferrell turns in yet another stellar lumbering-dimwit performance (see also: Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy and Old School, for starters) and makes Ricky Bobby a lovable moron. There are crotch jokes, booze jokes, sex jokes and the requisite number of lusty women (Bibb and co-star Amy Adams, as Ricky’s assistant) to keep the guys smiling. There are obnoxious kids who mouth off to their elders, and delinquent elders—specifically, Gary Cole as Ricky’s alcoholic, drug-dealing, absentee father, Reese—to even the score. Plus, there’s lots and lots and lots of cars going really, really fast. Bonus points go to Molly Shannon for her brief but memorable bit part as a thoroughly sloshed team-owner’s wife. So, all good, right? Sort of. Where the film lost me, though, was in its tired retread of the “let’s make fun of the gays!” angle, wherein Jean Girard is nothing more than a mincing prisspot with an equally sissified husband (played by Andy Richter and his German accent). How many times is this old chestnut going to be trotted out for laughs? How often will we have to listen to audiences squeal or snicker when the inevitable onscreen boy-boy kiss is played for laughs or perhaps, one wonders, disgust? My packed-to-the-rafters full theater did just that each time Jean’s lips moved towards those of any other male character, in an “ewwwwww! two guys are gonna kiss!” way. Sad. I realize that the audience is partly to blame for their own reaction, but it’s also obvious that the filmmakers have dropped that stuff in there to elicit exactly this kind of response. And that’s even sadder. |
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Let’s get something straight right off the bat: Talladega Nights
is not high-brow comedy. You are not meant to ponder its deep meaning
or remark at its subtlety. This is a movie that features, among other
things, multiple scenes of Will Ferrell running around in his
underpants like a lunatic, so you know you’re in frat-boy-humor
territory.
