‘The Animal’ Batista as a dinner theater director whose murder mysteries are hopelessly predictable is a stroke of genius (and yes, I know what his real name is, but it doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. Would a ‘Bautista Bomb’ be as devastating? Somehow, I don’t think so).
Comparably brilliant is Joel McHale as an alcoholic Wacky Parent — perhaps even more so, since he’s given more screen time and puts it to great use; he digs deep and mines some rather intriguing Gary Cole territory.
I wish Parachute had been about either (or both) of them as they step out of their comfort zone and test their range. They’re already stealing the movie, so why not just hand it to them? Sure, maybe their characters work as well as they do precisely because less is more, and who’s to say they wouldn’t overstay their welcome if their roles were bigger?
That’s a risk I would have been willing to take (and, given that neither is hamming it up or chewing the scenery — quite the contrary — I doubt that their continued presence would grow wearisome). I was considerably more curious to learn how Bryce (Batista) and Jamie (McHale) arrived at their current stations in life — a curiosity that was sadly never sated — than interested in finding out where non-entities Riley Hart (Courtney Eaton) and Ethan Collins (Thomas Mann) were going (either together or apart).
It doesn’t bode well for the film when the supporting players are like the sun while the leads are like the moon; that is to say, the latter draw light and warmth from the former — but without them, the protagonists are bleak and cold and airless.
Moreover, I’ll take a well-done quirky comedy over a half-assed drama any day of the week. I’m not saying that “an eating thing” and “body stuff” aren’t a worthy subject, but then the fact alone that co-writer/director Brittany Snow couldn’t even bring herself to call a spade a spade is symptomatic of the film’s superficial handling of the material.
And it’s not just a nomenclature problem, either. I’d much rather you show me what you’re dealing with as opposed to simply telling me about it; unfortunately, the screenplay keeps dancing around the subject instead of tackling it head on.
Take for example Riley’s therapy sessions with Dr. Akerman (Gina Rodríguez), which are nothing but a thinly disguised excuse to deliver exposition, while the good doctor herself is little more than an audience surrogate.
It is in one of those sessions that it’s mentioned, though never explained, why Riley and Ethan can’t have a romantic relationship right away. “Riley, there’s a reason why the 12-step program discourages us from being in a relationship in our first year.”
What that reason is, however, is never specified. Also, which step would that be? And what are the other 11? We’ll never know because the script only cares about the one that allows it to drive the plot forward — never mind that if the movie really were about Riley’s recovery, each step would be equally important.
Riley had earlier tried to disabuse Ethan of the notion that they were going to have sex by claiming that “research suggests that relapses occur after treatment in the first year;” be that as it may, the cause-and-effect relationship (if any) once again remains a question mark.
Incidentally, Riley gives Ethan a rambling speech regarding the no-fucking rule, only for the film to Gilligan Cut to them bursting through Riley’s apartment door, sucking face and hands all over the other before Riley collects herself and puts a damper on the situation.
What was, then, the point of Riley’s prefatory blathering? Since they’re not going to hold sexual congress at that particular time, why not go straight to the two of them slobbering all over each other and Riley stopping Ethan short — and then she can give him the whole no-sex spiel.
Anyway, in the final session/last scene, Riley sees the error of her ways and makes a verbal commitment to getting better (whether she will put in the hard work is, I guess, up to the viewers; I for one am not sold on Riley’s growth) — and all it took was a suicide attempt.
I can only hope the message isn’t that almost dying by your own hand is faster, cheaper, and more effective than therapy, although that’s certainly the impression I got.
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