Dir. Walt Becker, US, 2007, 100 mins
Cast: John Travolta, Tim Allen, Martin Lawrence, William H Macy, Ray Liotta
Review by Jean Lynch
The “Weekend Warriors” roar onto our shores in a blaze of publicity following a phenomenal showing at the US box office. This tale of four male mid-life crises, played out Easy Rider style as they embark on a road trip down the desert highway, has clearly struck a nerve Stateside, but it remains to be seen if this most American overgrown schoolboy pre-occupation will find the same appeal here in the UK.
With Travolta, Allen, Macy and Lawrence as the four friends who choose to escape their dreary, routine-laden lives and head down the fast memory lane as part-time bikers, the “Wild Hogs“, and Liotta as the dumb-ass redneck leader of some bona fide, leather skinned and leather tough real hells angels, the Del Fuegos, who hates with a passion these plastic posing pedallers, the film not only has a dream cast but a set-up which lends itself to lots of fun…
…which is why it pains to report that Wild Hogs is anything but. There are two main problems: to begin with, the chemistry amongst the leads is non-existent. Macy, the most serious actor of the quartet, turns in the best performance as computer geek Dudley, who has a passion for vintage bikes (he’s more akin to the kind of British biking afficinado who loves his old Norton or BSA), and could be Wayne’s World‘s Garth, older, but not necessarily wiser. Interesting that the thespian of the group gives us the character that we most warm to. Allen, as dentist Doug, is affable enough, a part not disimilar from Home Improvement, Jungle to Jungle, and so on. Sometimes we want to see actors being the persona we know and love them for, nothing more, nothing less, and Allen gives us that. Had the casting remained with these two there may have been more substance to the ‘Wild Hogs’. Instead, we also get Lawrence as Bobby – a failed writer whose horrible, mean wife makes him go back to his old job as a plumber, wrestling dirty toilets – how terrible, considering she’d only bankrolled the whole family for a year.
But the most excrutiating experience is watching Travolta completely miss the mark as Woody – a most apt name is ever there was one – the guy the others look up to, who has the house, the model wife and – unbeknownst to them – the creditors at the door and the divorce papers in his hand. Potentially an interesting character then? Hell, no. What on earth was the director telling him to do?? We know that Travolta can do comedy – we know he’s a likeable guy – so what on earth went wrong here? Woody is an infantile, boorish bully of very little brain. No wonder he’s broke and lonely and, worst of all, we couldn’t care less.
The mismatched companions love of bikes is meant to be the common denominator but, however much they’ve grown up and apart from the free-wheeling youths they allegedly once were, the audience has to believe that deep within them still burns that biking spirit; there’s not even a whiff of a spark. Maybe it’s a case of too many big name stars spoiling the broth or just an incredibly lame script coupled with awe-inspiringly bad direction, but the ‘Wild Hogs’ are just little, irritating piggies for whom the kindest thing would be the butcher’s knife..
And the second problem? Well, a pre-requisite of comedy is that it’s funny – either laugh out loud or else the type you wince at because you recognise something about yourself in the absurdity of it’s truth. Wild Hogs has neither. It is slapstick, pure and simple, but even slapstick has a delicacy to it, a beautiful choreography as in Chaplin, Laurel & Hardy and even American Pie. The music score is reminiscent of Benny Hill (so we know where this one was pitched) but even that humour was balletic (and tongue-in-cheek) compared to this. The slapstick here is actually quite nasty and you notice this because it’s mistimed. It’s very cliched too – oops, I’ve accidentally logged onto a speaking porn site whilst I’m in a crowded coffee shop; darn, I’ve set the rednecks bar on fire; oh dear, we’re swimming in the nuddy and there’s a nicey nicey family with their zillions of toothy, freckle-faced children wanting to jump in; gosh, just look what I’ve done with this ketchup. And didn’t you just know, when they all hurl their mobiles into the gutter – because this trip has to be free from all those kind of trappings – that somewhere, somehow, they’d get into a scrape where instant communication with the big bad civilised world might just come in handy?
Liotta is quite watchable as head biker of the rival real bikers, the Del Fuegos, but even he seems to think that these four guys aren’t really worth the trouble and his gang aren’t the most formidable of foes considering their reputation, what the guys have done to them, and the fact that with no gas and residing in the only town for miles Travolta and co are sitting ducks.
There’s a couple of nice cameos; Peter Fonda, of the aforementioned Easy Rider, is a nice touch as the Del Fuegos bike hero, Damien Blade, and Scrubs’ John C McGinley as the cop who certainly likes a bit of male bonding is probably the best thing in the film. Even here, however, the comedy is reliant on homophobia, and there’s a good dollop of male chauvinism too, with Bobby’s wife (Tchina Arnold), the one who’s been slaving away so he can indulge his dream for the past year, being portrayed as the harpie from hell because she happens to be a bit peeved when she second-handedly learns of his little escapade. Women, eh?
Most films have something to celebrate, and lower budget films and fledgling filmmakers should be encouraged even when they’re slightly wide of the mark, providing they show some promise. In the case of a big studio production, with all the budget and tools of the trade at it’s disposal, plus a cast to die for there’s just no excuse and someone should really put the WildHhogs humanely out of their misery.
You want male bonding and to revisit your lost youth? Get in some beers, call up some old mates, and rent out City Slickers instead.
