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Barry (no relation) is an auto-taxi -- short for autodidact taxidermist -- which has nothing to do with motor vehicles. It means he taught himself how to stuff dead animals. And in this age of specialization, his micro-specialty is mice. He is also an artiste: Barry doesn't just stuff the wee corpses; he costumes and choreographs them in dramatic dioramas full of sociocultural comment.
So far, so twisted -- good. As a comic character concept for Steve Carell in "Dinner for Schmucks," the premise holds promise. Barry stumbles into the path of a Porsche driven by corporate climber Tim (Paul Rudd). Tim's big promotion-in-progress hinges on his boss's favorite sadistic social event -- a banquet to which the cynical invited guests must bring the most ludicrous eccentric they can find for the purpose of mocking and crowning one of them "the winner." Barry was made to order for such an occasion.
- Starring: Steve Carell, Paul Rudd.
- Rating: PG-13 for crude and sexual content, some partial nudity and language.
So the film and its wafer-thin plot center on that "bring an idiot to dinner" challenge, in theory. What they really center on, in practice, is the acquired taste of Mr. Carell's clueless deadpan-dumb persona as seen in flicks such as "The 40-Year-Old Virgin," "Evan Almighty," "Get Smart" and in "The Office" TV series.
Mr. Carell's Michael Scott character in "The Office," for example, is so obnoxiously vain that it's easy to laugh at his pompous pronouncements and mistakes. But his idiot-savant Barry is so pathetically benign, laughing at him here is more problematic.
Most problematic, however, is director Jay Roach's approach. His "Austin Powers" and "Meet the Parents/Fockers" franchise series have a combined box-office take of some $725 million to date. That's more than I make in three years. But never mind existential economic injustice.
More annoying, and more to the point, is the surefire "process" by which Mr. Roach makes a comedy. Fully a third of his final footage, he says, is improvised -- gleaned from the multiple "alts" (alternative takes) suggested by a small army of writers, actors, crew members, caterers and God-knows-who-else on his shooting sets. In the case at hand, David Guion's and Michael Handelman's original screenplay was rewritten at least six times after roundtable conferences with such improv-comedians as Ben Stiller, Garry Shandling and Will Ferrell suggesting new gags.
Bottom line: It's the comics themselves (like Carell, Adam Sandler, Jim Carrey, Mike Myers), not the actor-writers (like Chaplin, Fields, Woody Allen), who create and control comedy films these days. As a result, the directors focus totally and obsessively on the star, who must carry every scene at the expense of everything else. Nary a thought is given to realizing any other character, certainly not, in "Dinner," to Stephanie Szostak as Rudd's girlfriend or to the grotesque dominatrix Darla (Lucy Punch), who provides groans rather than comic relief. Nobody else in the cast is the least bit real or really entertaining, except Jemaine Clement (from "Flight of the Conchords") as satyr-satiric Kier, indulging in his erotic photo shoots.
As for the long-awaited reteaming of Messers. Carell and Rudd by popular demand -- who exactly was demanding it, and for how long? -- Mr. Carell, undeniably, is a unique comedian with a big following. Mr. Rudd is the unfunniest foil and least interesting love-interest in screen captivity, though his terminal blandness is more Roach's fault than his own. You could replace Paul Rudd with Paul Simon or Rand Paul and never notice the difference.
The whole story, by the way, was "borrowed" from French director Francis Veber's highly amusing "The Dinner Game" (1998). But Roach and company are so busy with their improv that they forget to build up (or bring off) the big climactic set piece we're supposedly waiting for. When the dinner party finally comes, it features some great guests -- a guy with a trained vulture, an X-rated ventriloquist, a pet psychic who channels the agony of the dead lobsters on their plates. But the payoff is a crashing letdown, so poorly executed that Mr. Roach puts a hasty slapstick end to it.
Some of those rodent dioramas, however, are truly funny -- a Da Vinci-esque Mouse-a Lisa and Last Mouse Supper, for instance. And there are periodic yuks from Barry's guileless mistakes (he thinks Nelson Mandela is Morgan Freeman) and malaprops ("After sex, you like to curl up in a fecal position.").
At least seven or eight people at the preview screening were killing themselves with laughter throughout, clearly having acquired the Carell taste. Most of the other 300 or so evidently hadn't made the acquisition.
Mr. Roach can only blame his own formula: Waaaay too many cooks spoil the froth.
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