Bang, wallop: Review of The Wedding Crashers
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There’s not an authentic moment in this ultra-broad romcom; you know it’s pretty much just two actor friends – Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn – yucking it up. But it’s that buddy badinage, the witty sparks between the frenetic, motormouth Vaughn and the laconic Wilson, that ultimately saves The Wedding Crashers’ high-concept ass.
John (Wilson) and Jeremy (Vaughn) attend wedding receptions of all stripes and creeds they’re not invited to, drinking the champers, eating the canapes and shagging the lookers among the guests. When they’re not playing, they’re working – the irony! – as divorce mediators.
John: Hey, listen. What angle are you going to play here?
Jeremy: I am going to go with the balloon animal display. For the kids. And then when she comes near, guess who is the broken man, haunted past? How about you?
John: I am going to go dance with the little flower girl. Oh, and I might be a charter member of Oprah's book club.
Jeremy: It's all deadly.
They wash up at the old-money estate of a big-time American politican, Secretary Cleary (Christopher Walken), by way of his daughters, Rachel McAdams and Isla Fisher, who very nearly steal the show. Fisher especially, who delights in being a “Stage five clinger!”, a virgin who’s instantly smitten with Jeremy. McAdams’ character has a womanising blowhard of a boyfriend, a nasty piece of work who needs replacing – by a lovestruck John.
Jane Seymour tries to escape her Dr Quinn corsets as the Secretary’s predatory wife who takes a shine to Wilson’s character. But it’s a pretty safe – and I would guess highly calculated – moment, just enough probably to get her on the radar of those who cast “Sexy Older Women” parts. Walken’s enjoying himself in his usual bemused kind of way.
It all mostly works, particularly a few set pieces – Fisher dressing Vaughn’s wounds, Vaughn chuntering away to a priest over scotch, Vaughn chuntering away tied up to bedpost to himself and late-night visitors. It’s occasionally cruder and more profane than some might expect from an ‘M’ rated film, which are naturally the best bits.
As for Wilson, I’ve never warmed to his lazy charms, that perfectly faked sincerity, but Vaughn’s continuing return to form more than makes up for him, and Wilson is the ideal foil. Minor characters, such as Sack Lodge, the improbably named boyfriend of McAdam’s character, the mad, bigoted Grandma and limp-wristed painter son Todd, are inevitably, but still maddeningly, painted in big fat strokes with lurid house paint. Sack Lodge takes pleasure in knocking Vaughn down in a home gridiron game and exposing the two fakers. Cinematic karma, be assured, is coming to get him.
There’s not an authentic moment in this ultra-broad romcom; you know it’s pretty much just two actor friends – Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn – yucking it up. But it’s that buddy badinage, the witty sparks between the frenetic, motormouth Vaughn and the laconic Wilson, that ultimately saves The Wedding Crashers’ high-concept ass.
John (Wilson) and Jeremy (Vaughn) attend wedding receptions of all stripes and creeds they’re not invited to, drinking the champers, eating the canapes and shagging the lookers among the guests. When they’re not playing, they’re working – the irony! – as divorce mediators.
John: Hey, listen. What angle are you going to play here?
Jeremy: I am going to go with the balloon animal display. For the kids. And then when she comes near, guess who is the broken man, haunted past? How about you?
John: I am going to go dance with the little flower girl. Oh, and I might be a charter member of Oprah's book club.
Jeremy: It's all deadly.
They wash up at the old-money estate of a big-time American politican, Secretary Cleary (Christopher Walken), by way of his daughters, Rachel McAdams and Isla Fisher, who very nearly steal the show. Fisher especially, who delights in being a “Stage five clinger!”, a virgin who’s instantly smitten with Jeremy. McAdams’ character has a womanising blowhard of a boyfriend, a nasty piece of work who needs replacing – by a lovestruck John.
Jane Seymour tries to escape her Dr Quinn corsets as the Secretary’s predatory wife who takes a shine to Wilson’s character. But it’s a pretty safe – and I would guess highly calculated – moment, just enough probably to get her on the radar of those who cast “Sexy Older Women” parts. Walken’s enjoying himself in his usual bemused kind of way.
It all mostly works, particularly a few set pieces – Fisher dressing Vaughn’s wounds, Vaughn chuntering away to a priest over scotch, Vaughn chuntering away tied up to bedpost to himself and late-night visitors. It’s occasionally cruder and more profane than some might expect from an ‘M’ rated film, which are naturally the best bits.
As for Wilson, I’ve never warmed to his lazy charms, that perfectly faked sincerity, but Vaughn’s continuing return to form more than makes up for him, and Wilson is the ideal foil. Minor characters, such as Sack Lodge, the improbably named boyfriend of McAdam’s character, the mad, bigoted Grandma and limp-wristed painter son Todd, are inevitably, but still maddeningly, painted in big fat strokes with lurid house paint. Sack Lodge takes pleasure in knocking Vaughn down in a home gridiron game and exposing the two fakers. Cinematic karma, be assured, is coming to get him.
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