Three stars. Rated R, and needless, for fleeting profanity and mild blue humor
By Derrick Bang
I’ve a soft spot for
light-hearted caper flicks, and a corresponding tendency to treat them gently, during
post-mortem analysis.
It’s therefore with great regret
that I pronounce Mortdecai a crushing
disappointment.
Although promoted as a caper
saga, that’s not quite accurate; the closest our title character gets to a
heist is climbing a ladder to enter a second-story window. And while the story
does revolve around a rumored Goya masterpiece enhanced by the possibility that
its canvas has been defaced with a code that might lead to long-lost Nazi gold,
Eric Aronson’s script dwells too heavily on Mortdecai himself.
Preening, foppish, self-centered
Charlie Mortdecai, played in full-blown, upper-class-twit mode by Johnny Depp.
Time was, a new Johnny Depp
project was cause for celebration; he brought such panache to most everything he did a decade or so ago, in
projects as diverse as Chocolat, From Hell, Finding Neverland and even the first Pirates of the Caribbean. More recently, though, his work has
tended toward self-indulgent laziness, with Depp apparently coasting on the
merits of his own career, and bringing little to each new party.
These days, in the wake of The Rum Diary, Dark Shadows and most particularly The Lone Ranger, we’re more inclined to roll our eyes at the
prospect of a new Depp feature ... much the way his Mortdecai sighs
theatrically and rolls his eyes at
just about everything here.
That’s the major problem with
director David Koepp’s approach; he and cinematographer Florian Hoffmeister
focus far too much on Depp. Granted, one expects a movie’s star to receive the
lion’s share of close-ups, but Depp’s slow, aristocratically condescending line
readings — although initially droll — become tiresome, and eventually bring the
otherwise fast-paced film to a grinding halt. Every. Time. He. Speaks.
Koepp is trying for a manic,
effervescent blend of P.G. Wodehouse and The
Pink Panther: a smart choice, since this film is inspired by the
charismatic, forever cash-strapped, art-dealer anti-hero in a series of three
comic novels by the late British author Kyril Bonfiglioli, and published back
in the 1970s. His Mortdecai clearly is based on Wodehouse’s Bertie Wooster, and
the resemblance is cemented further by Mortdecai’s far more capable manservant
Jock Strapp, an equally obvious nod to Bertie’s Jeeves.
Bonfiglioli’s Mortdecai books are
beloved by no less than Stephen Fry, who will be remembered as the pluperfect
Jeeves in the 1990 TV series he did with frequent colleague Hugh Laurie. And if
this film’s press notes are to be believed, Depp himself is another Bonfiglioli
fan. So far, so good.
The ingredients seem ideal, and
Depp is surrounded by a cast of scene-stealing supporting players, none better
than Paul Bettany’s handling of the thuggish but impressively resourceful Jock.
No matter how dire the predicament, or how badly he gets injured in the
process, Jock faithfully guards his employer, and never fails to address him
courteously, as befits his lesser station.
Excepting his increasingly
exasperated responses to Mortdecai’s running-gag question — “Will it all work
out?” — as events escalate ever further out of control. Initially, Jock replies
with a solicitous “I really couldn’t say, sir” ... but, eventually, even his
patience wears thin. To delightful effect.
But that comes later. We catch up
with Mortdecai as he attempts to ease a crushing tax debt — the price of living
in a mansion larger than Buckingham Palace — by selling a vase of (we assume)
questionable authenticity. The deal goes south, predictably, and Mortdecai
returns home with nothing to show for his effort.
Elsewhere, debonair MI5 “special assignments”
investigator Alistair Martland (Ewan McGregor) inherits a case involving an art
restorer found dead under odd circumstances. Odder still: The painting she was laboring
over has been stolen. Martland reluctantly summons Mortdecai, who —
demonstrating his one actual talent — identifies the supposedly lost Goya via
photos developed from the victim’s camera.
Martland and Mortdecai have uncomfortable
history: They attended Oxford together, and pursued the same young woman.
Johanna (Gwyneth Paltrow) eventually married Mortdecai, and Martland has
carried a torch ever since.
Word of the Goya spreads rapidly
— and deliberately, as a means of smoking out interested parties — and
Mortdecai quickly finds his life imperiled on numerous sides. Terrorist Emil
Strago (Jonny Pasvolsky), the chief suspect, wants the Goya in order to finance
a violent worldwide uprising. Snooty art dealer Sir Graham (Michael Culkin) has
a Russian client (Ulrich Thomsen, as Romanov) who will stop at nothing to
obtain it.
Romanov’s two pet thugs — Alec
Utgoff’s Dmitri is a hoot — have a fondness for attaching car batteries to
sensitive portions of the male anatomy.
Then there’s American billionaire
Milton Krampf (Jeff Goldblum), whom Mortdecai loathes, but to whom he’s
nonetheless selling his beloved Rolls Royce (that tax debt again). Mortdecai
wouldn’t be surprised if Krampf somehow has his
hand in the Goya theft.
What ensues involves plenty of
danger, and Mortdecai responds to each new threat with the dainty squeal of a
little girl ... a reaction which, somehow, doesn’t quite work. There’s a very
fine line between droll impotence — which Hugh Laurie delivered unerringly, as
Bertie Wooster — and aggravating spinelessness, and Depp too frequently slides
toward the latter.
Cads must be lovable, in order to
retain our sympathy, and Depp’s Mortdecai ... isn’t.
Frankly, it becomes hard to
understand what Johanna sees in him.
That’s particularly true once we
realize that she’s the brains in their relationship. Mortdecai would have been
booted from British high society years ago, were it not for the loving care
administered by his wife and Jock. Once apprised of the Goya situation, the far
more savvy Johanna becomes very
useful, particularly since she can cajole sensitive details from Martland.
Then there’s the matter of Mortdecai’s
moustache.
He has just crafted this Hercule
Poirot-ish appearance as the story begins, and Johanna hates it: loathes it so
much, in fact, that it threatens their marriage. It also threatens the film,
because Koepp, Aronson, Depp and all concerned spend far too much time on moustache matters. I suppose one shouldn’t be
surprised, since make-up artist Joel Harlow is credited as a “moustache wrangler,”
which demands that his work be showcased.
Which it is. Incessantly. Long
past the point of wringing humor from such a trivial detail.
Further on the topic of elements
that don’t quite work, we can point to an ill-advised vomit scene (a tedious
go-to moment in far too many contemporary comedies). Olivia Munn also has a
woefully underdeveloped role as Georgina, Krampf’s nymphomaniacal daughter.
This character truly doesn’t work,
and Munn — capable of so much better, as evidenced by her excellent co-starring
role in HBO’s The Newsroom — looks
helpless and embarrassed in every scene.
The cast of international
suspects means plenty of travel, which unfolds via clever special-effects sequences
that involve rapid-fire editing and 3D “location IDs.” I first remember seeing
this sort of visually arresting typography during the opening credits of 2002’s
Panic Room, which Koepp wrote; he
obviously liked the effect, and makes excellent use of it here.
Production designer James
Merifield gives the film a whimsical retro atmosphere, with echoes of the
Swinging Sixties somehow slipping into an otherwise contemporary action comedy.
The genre also demands a few obligatory vehicular chases, which — sadly —
aren’t nearly as much fun as they should be.
Ultimately, that’s the core
problem: Nothing here works quite as well as it should. Mortdecai is much less than the sum of its parts, and some of those
don’t even gel.
A director must be held
accountable for a film’s assembly, and although Koepp is a highly successful
scripter/writer (Jurassic Park, Mission Impossible, the first Spider-Man and the aforementioned Panic Room, among many others), his
helming efforts are spottier (The Trigger
Effect, Secret Window and Ghost Town). Koepp never quite seems to
know what to do with his casts, and that’s a crucial failing when it comes to
burlesques such as Mortdecai.
Comedies require rigorous
handling, and Koepp hasn’t got the touch. Nor was he able to keep Depp in line,
and the results — while fitfully amusing — are unsatisfying.
Bonfiglioli’s novels definitely
deserve to be resurrected and embraced by the current generation of readers,
but this film is unlikely to kindle that spark. More’s the pity.
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