This
ensemble caper comedy wants to be There's Something About
a Fish Called Wanda so badly that it hurts. Cast and crew
pile zany wackiness on top of cruel hilarity, but it's just
never any fun. The plot centres on three employees of the
Desert Savings Bank in a dusty corner of Southern California:
Sheila (Silverstone) has just been dumped by her boss-boyfriend
Rick (Leonard) and knows that if she robs the cash machine
over the weekend he'll lose his job. Woods (Harrelson) has
been humiliated by Rick one too many times and now has plans
to empty the safety deposit box of the local arrogant millionaire
(Cleese). And Stu (Costanzo) is convinced by his pal (Krumholz)
to borrow a bag full of bank cash to see if they can turn
it into a fortune over a weekend in Vegas.
The
film opens on Monday morning when a naive nice guy (Thomas)
arrives at the bank to start his new job, only to find the
place in chaos after the weekend robberies. We then jump
back and follow the increasingly nutty series of events
in a sunny and loud filmmaking style that thinks it's much
more hip and cool than it is. The script isn't that bad,
and in the hands of a good director this could have been
a lively heist comedy. But this leaden mess never gets off
the ground; the superb cast is encouraged to play it broadly,
without subtext or character detail, and it's photographed
and edited with no finesse at all. It feels completely pointless,
despite some entertaining sequences and gifted performers.
Every chance to make something intriguing out of the characters
is wasted (the worst is Cook's Xena wannabe, who could be
cut out entirely); while the film is watchable, not a single
plot thread comes to life. We may laugh a few times and
marvel at how the filmmakers juggle the storylines, but
without even a whiff of originality we're left utterly cold
at the end. Sigh.
Scorched Cast:
Alicia Silverstone, Woody Harrelson, Paulo Costanzo,
John Cleese,
David Krumholtz, Marcus Thomas, Joshua Leonard, Ivan
Sergei,
Rachael Leigh Cook, Jeffrey Tambor, Al Corley, Max
Wein