Por Jamie Dornan. All those years playing the hideous serial killer on the decidedly depressing TV show The Fall; another gig as the franchically ridiculous sadistic Christian Gray in the 50 Shades franchise; abandoned in the Irish countryside with a strange accent on Wild Mountain Thyme. And all the time, if it’s to be believed now, I just wanted to be a fool. I was just waiting for writers, actors, and comedians Kristen Wiig and Annie Mumolo, who most famously collaborated on the Bridesmaids script a decade ago, to find the right role.
Much of life is surreal these days, so you’ll be forgiven for once again seeing Dornan frolic on a Florida beach as he rips his shirt off with a mighty cheesy ballad; for squinting while whining plaintively at a commitment-phobic supervillain; for wondering if he could be wrong while courting a pair of middle-aged Nebraska ladies in culottes. But such is the magic of Wiig and the absolutely insane comedy of Mumolo, Barb and Star going to Vista Del Mar, that you will end up believing, as Dornan has told everyone in interviews for the film, that he is a natural born clown.
Barb and Star is not a sharp satire, not a suggestive and malicious comedy of manners, not a carnival of wit and wisdom. It is not an austere work of art that arouses passionate opinions on social media or long, serious reads. It is not a likely subject for Cahiers du Cinéma. It is sheer nonsense that if the reaction of the early viewers is anything to go through, it is exactly what we need as we traverse the current valley of tears. Super saturated with neons and pastels, decked out with inflatable pool toys and cocktail umbrellas and bathed in mild lewdness (there’s a song called I Love Boobies that the team apparently performed for an Academy Award), he’s the kind of things to see. when you’ve flushed all the platforms for in-mold content from Sausage Party, Horrible Bosses, Ted 1 & 2, This is Spinal Tap, Ali G Indahouse, and Anchorman. It’s probably not the kind of thing to see if you’ve spent months counting towards the release of Adam Curtis’s Can’t Get You Out of My Head.
Wiig and Mumolo have written it, off and on, for years, developing their characters: two Midwestern women, a widow and a derelict, both fired from a furniture store. They’re the kind of friends who could put it all together for the vacation of their dreams and find themselves battling a sinister villain (also played by Wiig) who tries to wipe out a spa with a swarm of genetically modified mosquitoes. And who could, while he’s there, cast a spell on Dornan, get lip piercings, meet a strange mystic played by Andy Garcia, and clean the gift shop of quaint shell necklaces and charm bracelets that they’ll then wear to free themselves from the forced scene. to tie? . At what point, one wonders, did they come up with the idea of someone pretending to be Morgan Freeman voicing a crab named Morgan Freemond, and what were they smoking when they did?
You can’t watch movies like this every day of your life; Sooner or later you will want to stroll through The Garden of Finzi-Continis or a touch of Truffaut or the slap of a Lars von Trier. Or at least I guess this is the case. But I recently spoke on the phone with a friend who had just seen Ingmar Bergman’s Wild Strawberries, about whose undeniable masterpiece the only thing I can remember is that someone dreams of a coffin falling from a car, and I just observed that in all its season. Perhaps Barb and Star are to the pandemic what a movie like Went the Day Well is? He went to World War II, with mosquitoes replacing the Nazi invaders that threatened a small English village; blatant propaganda for the idea that we can overcome any threat if we all come together.
I’d rather read it, though, as a hymn to the power of middle-aged women, who will even turn the universally unflattering culotte to their advantage in a pinch. Those who rarely stop imagining a better life, one in which they might call themselves Trish and ride a bright yellow banana boat and unleash their dormant libidos. Who will channel our desires to vacation in classy hotels with bright blue drinks and fluffy towels that we haven’t washed ourselves. And who could, in fact, sit with their partner and think of a ridiculous thing that can be counted on that will not have coffin cars?
George is Digismak’s reported cum editor with 13 years of experience in Journalism