MR. WOODCOCK
Reviewed by Sam Hatch
Word has it that Mr. Woodcock was left simmering on a studio shelf for more than two years before finally (dis)gracing your local Cineplex screens. I would love to say that it aged like a fine wine during that interim, but the truth is it simply grew mold and has arrived to stink up the world like a rancid block of cheese.
The concept is sound – demonic gym coach torments children so much it damages their psyches well into adulthood. Billy Bob Thornton plays the titular sports-minded bastard (another in a string of caustic nihilists bred from the success of Bad Santa), whose name is merely meant to evoke titters when punters ask for tickets.
The early scenes with Woodcock repeatedly breaking the spirit of his classroom (“Lose the asthma”) have a bit of comedic heft to them, and are a sore reminder that similar material could have soared in the hands of an Apatow or Rogen. Instead we have Craig Gillespie (apparently some villainous entity sent from the bowels of hell) doing his worst, combining this edgier fare with the so-tired-it-can't-crawl concept of the main character returning to his/her hometown after succeeding in the big city. Supposedly David Dobkin came in to direct a few weeks' worth of reshoots, not that it helped any. Unless he came up with the idea of dipping a whistle in urine, in which case he's a genius and he saved the picture! (I keed.)
This profoundly noxious mash-up of Sweet Home Alabama and Just Friends (and countless others) centers on Sean William Scott's John Farley, a cute, dimpled little mama's boy turned best-selling self help guru. He's a Dr. Phil-lite whose entire career is based upon the emotional scars suffered at the besneakered feet of the terrifying Woodcock. And right when his agent Maggie (Amy Poehler, trying to do what she can with what's at hand) scores him a huge gig on Oprah (the career-maker for many a hack writer) he gets a call to come back home.
Home is the corny town of Forest Meadows, Nebraska, where every year they celebrate their kernel-laden world with a Cornival (shoot me now). Inexplicably (or maybe I snored through the explanation), John's mom Beverly (Susan Sarandon) is still the only person who can fill the role of Queen of the Corn Parade, and he plans on doin' her proud by flying in to receive the key to the city (the Corn Cob Key – d'oh!). Much to his chagrin, upon arriving he learns that none other than Mr. Woodcock has been courting Mrs. Mom.
Guess what? All of Farley's confidence and self-affirmation goes flying out the window, as he suddenly reconnects with that terrified young boy. In a creepy oedipal twist, he decides to break the couple up, and while this is ostensibly meant to save Beverly from the pure evil that is Woodcock, it almost plays off as jealousy. Stifler wants to date his own Mom. Eeewww.
Even My Name Is Earl costar Ethan Suplee can't save this sinking garbage barge. He was one of the other damaged kids (Nedderman, now working at a fast food joint), and is quickly drafted into the cause of destroying Mr. Woodcock's amorous plans. His introduction is briefly amusing, as his exclamation of shock over the situation creates a chain reaction of restaurant employees using various terms to describe the fact that Mr. Woodcock is “doing” Farley's Mom. The first few are funny, but the latter three hundred (or so it felt) are yawn inducing.
The film is also remarkably tonally similar to last year's Bastard Billy Bob feature School For Scoundrels (but with Woodcock hibernating for as long as it did, who ripped off who?), but at least the downtrodden Jon Heder character from that film was allowed multiple opportunities to gain the upper hand. Here, John is bested around every turn – he thinks he's broken the pair up, only to learn that his Mom's tears… are of joy because Woodcock proposed to her!
Not to mention the see-through attempts at building a case against the vile teacher. A break-in at Woodcock's house yields the dubious evidence of a pair of panties, followed by a scene in which John finds himself stuck under the bed while his mortal enemy pounds his mom into next Wednesday – he has a giant cock you see. That's funny, so laugh. Later John contacts the man's ex-wife, who carefully words that her marriage fell apart because of massive infidelity. So later, when Farley triumphantly stands up at a town meeting and shouts this character-damning information to everyone in attendance, she suddenly clarifies that she was the unfaithful one. Whoah-hoh! I didn't see that one coming a mile away like a Sherman tank painted hot pink! Oh that's right – I did!
The lack of comedy is made more painful due to these characters being largely unbelievable. Scott doesn't pull off the self-help guy, and when he plays the wimpy underdog he mainly comes off as annoying (especially after he wins the corn-eating contest, finally besting Woodcock at a mundane challenge). On the flip-side, there's no way to connect the subhuman, emotionless vacuum of Woodcock with the great guy that Beverly supposedly sees. And what the hell is wrong with her anyway? She should kick both of these apes out of her life and buy a reliable vibrator.
When the trite screenplay introduces the “fresh” (I mean that sarcastically) concept of John's boyhood crush (Melissa Sagemiller as Tracy) suddenly becoming an available dating commodity, I was ready to locate the screenwriters (Michael Carnes and Josh Gilbert), trap them in the nose of a rocket like Gamera the turtle and shoot them into the depths of space. Luckily, Tracy quickly learns that John is just as much an asshole as Woodcock, and shuffles off into the Realm of the Useless Characters for a little while.
Another puzzling oddity is that as bad as this gym teacher is (in the name of hilarity he is shown being outright abusive towards his students, even half-standing on them while they do push ups), nobody seems to mention this fact. When Farley is looking for support after blowing his key-acceptance speech on a last-ditch effort to besmirch the name of Woodcock, there's nary a nerd around to back him up. Was he just imagining the severity of the gym teacher's abuse? Doubtful. It's more likely that the script simply wanted him to suffer more, even at the expense of logic. It's supposed to be even funnier when a series of dolts step on stage to swear their allegiance to Woodcock for carving them into the perfect beings they are today.
Granted, I did laugh out loud maybe three or four times, primarily during the gym class flashbacks. But the rest of the film is such a shuddering, stitched-together mess that it telegraphs its jokes well before they arrive. It's loaded with characters we just don't care about, perhaps with the exception of Amy Poehler. As the credits roll, you want to sidle up next to her at the bar, pound a round of shots and just forget any of this ever happened.
In a word (or more): Woodcock blows. Save your money and go see Superbad.