RICKY STANICKY Rated: Running time: Where to watch:
“Ricky Stanicky,” a sloppy shock comedy by director Peter Farrelly (of the Oscar-winning “Green Book”), is named for an imaginary friend conjured up by three childhood pals (Zac Efron, Jermaine Fowler and Andrew Santino). As kids, the lads made their fictional buddy take the fall for a Halloween prank gone wrong.
Decades later, they’ve rebranded Ricky as a heroic figure who lives in Nairobi, Kenya, returning to the States only when the guys want an excuse to ditch their significant others for a bros-only vacation. After one weekend trip goes awry, the longtime liars are forced to prove that Ricky exists.
That’s the film’s premise. But the only person invested in it is John Cena as Rod, a broke and salacious nightclub performer hired to embody Ricky for a weekend. Playing this filthy-minded, flop-sweating boozehound, Cena barges into the plot with the get-it-while-youcan gusto of a raccoon upending a trash bin. The joke is that Rod takes his paid acting gig seriously, and he boasts a hustler’s gift for sensing what people want him to say. While the high jinks are too haphazard to give him a credible — or heck, even coherent — character arc, Cena is here and there able to seize moments to show us the fissures in his layered personas, a fragile construction of confidence, ego, vulnerability and need.
Pity the script itself suffers from a hopeless identity crisis. Since “Ricky Stanicky” made its debut on the 2010 Black List of the best unproduced screenplays, the project has been circled by three other potential Rickys (James Franco, Joaquin Phoenix and Jim Carrey) and passed through too many hands. It now boasts six credited screenwriters yet feels like a jumble of ideas sticky-noted together during a single lunch break. (Kudos to whoever came up with the dig at how little the friends actually know about Nairobi.)
When an investment banker (William H. Macy, whose gameness extends through the end credits) offers Ricky a job, the loosey goosey slapstick momentarily aspires to become a social mobility farce. It’s also, briefly and unconvincingly, about traumatic childhoods, stunted relationships, corporate dogooderism and vapid local news. In a moment of astonishing chutzpah, Rodas-ricky
Video
R108 minutes Prime
also advises people to be their authentic selves.
Farrelly’s earnest bits are, as ever, peppered with cringeworthy gags. (The best one involves a bris.) But these moments are shot and edited so carelessly that they don’t get the laughs they could.
Even musically, the dissonance is distracting. A bit in which a duck attempts to murder a dog is set to screeching electric guitar. A showdown with a suspicious mother-in-law is drowned out by clamorous jazz piano.
Later, the soundtrack blares the Summer of Love anthem “San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair)” for no reason other then there’s some people in the shot who have flown in from the Bay. I found myself rooting for the film to get it together for Cena’s sake — to care as much as he does. When the movie flashed back to Rod’s early career as a promoter of raunchy dog acts, I was absurdly grateful that someone at least bothered to de-age him with a wig.