Muppet caper strictly for grown-ups
THINK of the Muppets or Sesame Street with all the wit and joy extracted, replaced with a barrage of expletives and crass vulgarity that might have been crafted by over-excited fifth-formers, and you have The Happytime Murders, out this week.
The premise, and indeed the first few minutes, are promising enough. Director Brian Henson (son of Muppets creator Jim Henson) and screenwriter Todd Berger have created a film noir set in Los Angeles where the second-class citizens are not poor blacks or Hispanics, but Muppet-style puppets.
Taking a classic film genre and giving it a sharp twist is nothing new — Alan Parker did it more than 40 years ago with Bugsy Malone. But done well, it can still be fun.
It took my wife and me about five minutes to realise that The Happytime Murders is not fun. We watched it at the Odeon in Hereford on Monday evening, where even the cackles of a quartet of adolescent boys, for whom the highlight was a scene in which two puppets have rampant and extremely messy sex, fairly quickly petered out. The film’s hero is Phil Phillips (voiced by Bill Barretta), a Sam Spade-type private investigator who was the LAPD’s first non-human detective until he was kicked off the force, stigmatised by the trumpedup Not much cop: McCarthy and Phillips allegation that he would not shoot his fellow puppets. Following a shotgun massacre in a porn shop, Phil realises that the targets of a warped vendetta are members of The Happytime Gang, puppet TV stars. Also investigating the murders is his former LAPD partner, the racist (ie antipuppet) Connie, played by Melissa McCarthy. They loathe each other but are forced to work together, as they try to solve the murders and protect the rest of the cast, including its only human member, Phil’s ex-lover Jenny (Elizabeth Banks). Maya Rudolph also pops up, as Phil’s devoted secretary, but don’t be misled by the presence of some fine comic actresses; they are wasted in the service of a series of unfunny setpieces and feeble running gags, including one, in which McCarthy’s character is mistaken for a man, that has the musty whiff of sheer desperation. For more reviews see MailOnline