(USA, 106 min.)
Dir. David Koepp, Writ. Eric Aronson
Starring: Johnny Depp, Gwyneth Paltrow, Ewan McGregor, Paul
Bettany
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| Johnny Depp stars as 'Charlie Mortdecai' in Mortdecai. Photo: David Appleby |
Mortdecai brings
to the screen the Kyril Bonfiglioli’s cult novel Don’t Point That Thing at Me, the first of three books in a series
featuring the bumbling art-dealer and part time rogue Charlie Mortdecai. Charlie
Mortdecai is basically the result of a one-night stand between Jacques Clouseau
and Johnny English, but with slightly better breeding and a significantly
goofier mustache. Johnny Deep stars as the titular bon vivant, and he puts on
his best(ish) English accent and worst facial hair for a spot of fun in this globetrotting
art caper. Even silly, harmless, goofy films premised on mustaches jokes have
limited mileage, though, and Mortdecai
milks Depp’s snot mop for every laugh it can get and then some. Mortdecai misses by more than a whisker,
but it’s not that bad as far as January releases go.
Mortdecai would probably be a lot more fun if it ran with the glitziness of its caper more than it twists Depp’s mustache. There’s about one good joke to be had with the mustache—two, maybe, given the gag reflex that Mortdecai’s wife, Johanna (Gwyneth Paltrow) experiences whenever Mortdecai’s lady tickler touches her lip—and that’s about it. Paltrow is fun in a throwaway role and more discernably British accent-wise than Depp is. Depp, on the other hand, seems to have a grand time stroking his facial hair, for Mortdecai boasts his hammiest performance to date and he drives the manic zaniness of Mortdecai through its mustachioed 106 minutes. He’s obviously having a lot of fun and it kind-of-sort-of translates to the film experience.
Mortdecai finds himself in the mix of an international art
incident when an art restorer is bumped off with a crossbow and the priceless
Goya masterwork in her care is whisked away to the black market. Mortdecai, a crooked
character himself, finagles a deal with MI5 agent Alistair Martland (Ewan
McGregor) to help retrieve the painting and, in turn, nab a finder’s fee, which
should save the Mortdecai estate from impending financial ruin. A decent joke
about rancid cheese punctuates the funny looks directed at Mortdecai’s curly
schnozz—and any inkling that this review has far too many mustache jokes
reflects the overabundance of them in the film itself.
Director David Koepp (Premium
Rush) unfurls the action with madcap energy as Mortdecai and his manservant
Jock Strapp (har, har!), played by a gamely over-the-top Paul Bettany, chase
after the painting, fight some goons, fly to Russia, jaunt to Hollywood, cop a
feel on a nymphomaniac, chat with Jeff Goldblum, and barf up some shellfish.
(Mustache jokes in between, ’course.) Johanna, meanwhile, investigates on the
sly while Alistair pines for her, and they both crisscross Mortdecai with double-entendres, larky playfulness, and, yes, more
mustache jokes.
Mortdecai, for all
its mustache gags, plays more like teen ’stache peach fuzz than full blown
Chaplin whiskers. It looks gloriously expensive and there’s a sporadic sugar
high to its confection, but it’s so terribly shrill and disposable that even
the novelty of seeing so many stars and so much glamour can’t save the film’s
strained screenplay by Eric Aronson, whose only other credit is the 2001 Lance
Bass film On the Line. Depp’s
performance is actually more disastrous than the screenplay is, since Mortdecai makes it feel as if Depp’s
shtick has finally worn thin. Koepp virtually lets Depp direct the film himself
and the star’s stab at being Peter Sellers doesn’t work. As one of the only
people outside of the Golden Globe voters who actually likes The Tourist, it’s hard to imagine the
film serving as a measure for stronger work in Depp’s filmography, but the
eccentric actor is gratingly and desperately annoying here.
The Tourist serves
as a much better (and I use the word “better” liberally here) serving of movie
stars looking glamorous and throwing money around since it’s such a shamelessly
stylish caper that one can’t help being swept up into its escapism. Mortdecai, on the other hand, never
quite finds a style to match its over-caffeinated energy, nor is there any heft
to the veneer of international intrigue. It’s not an all-out farce à la Austin Powers and it’s far more
comparable to the Steve Martin Pink
Panther movies than the Peter Sellers ones, although Depp and Bettany make
an admirable stab at Clouseau-Kato camaraderie. Their repartee, however, hinges
on more lame facial hair zingers in one film than Clouseau was ever subjected
to in his mustachioed lifetime. :{
Rating: ★★ (out of ★★★★★)
Mortdecai is now playing in wide release.
