“Identity Thief” stole my brain, and now I hate everything
How do Melissa McCarthy, Jason Bateman and a decent-sounding premise end up as lazy, paranoid garbage?
Topics: Movies, Comedy, Melissa McCarthy, Identity Thief, Entertainment News
If the Jason Bateman-Melissa McCarthy comedy “Identity Thief” isn’t the worst Hollywood comedy ever made, that’s only because it lacks the spark of conviction and genius – the thoroughly misguided belief in itself – that distinguishes something like Adam Sandler’s “Grown Ups.” But considering that it starts out with two distinctive and likable stars and a reasonably promising premise, “Identity Thief” reaches impressive heights of laziness and idiocy. We’re always supposed to say that actors are not responsible for their most terrible films, but it isn’t quite enough for Bateman and McCarthy to fire their agents, or return unopened next year’s holiday cards from whatever Universal Pictures executive actually watched this film and then decided to release it. They need to seriously consider firing themselves, or at least placing themselves on administrative leave (also known, in this business, as television).
I almost never walk out of movie screenings that I’ve actually bestirred myself to attend, but only some perverse and self-punishing sense of honor kept me in my seat for this one. Here I am, two hours closer to the moment of my death, and I spent those hours wriggling like a toddler while McCarthy mimed oral sex on corpulent cowboys and Bateman desperately mugged his way through a role as Sandy Patterson, a supposedly average corporate drone who is endlessly mocked for having a “girl’s name.” I see that aimless gag as unhappily symbolic; no one in this movie has a wide enough frame of reference to have met a guy named Sandy before, and the movie itself displays exactly the same kind of ignorance and incuriosity, not to mention free-floating paranoia.
I remember laughing at an Ayn Rand joke early on, which suggested that Craig Mazin’s screenplay once contained some vague political ambitions. Trying to explain to Sandy why the brass at his financial firm are receiving six- or seven-figure bonuses while the regular schmoes get diddly-squat, his jerkass boss tells him, “I’ll get you a copy of ‘The Fountainhead.’ Then you’ll see why this is good for everybody.” And once in a while, McCarthy’s nasty-girl shtick is amusing, as when she finally meets Sandy’s wife (Amanda Peet, criminally underutilized here) and assures her, in overly graphic woman-to-woman detail, that nothing happened between her and Sandy on their long and intimate road trip across the country, with rednecks and black people in hot pursuit.




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