Viewed by 30 million people on its opening weekend, this woefully median comic caper is an odd addition to the actors CVs
Thirty-nine minutes and 40 seconds, I have it down as- 39 m 40 s flat. That tags the first time I tittered during the dark comedy film Murder Mystery( Netflix, out now ), starring Adam Sandler( 90 s comedian) and Jennifer Aniston( no better performer in Hollywood at saying : “Ooh!” while blowing fringe out of her face to call mild-to-medium surprise ).
And I want to say something to caveat that fact: I am a very simple man. Phenomenally readily entertained. Leave me alone in a silent chamber- solitary confinement, say, inside a high-risk prison- and I’ll got something to jest at within 40 minutes. I have been to funny funerals. Some third-warning satisfies at work. You can titter while a rector is screaming at you, and I have the stern notes written home to my mother to prove it. But Adam Sandler, trying his best? Forty entire minutes. That is the review.
You want to know what Murder Mystery is about: well, it’s a carnage whodunit. Is it a sophisticated one, layered with direction and misdirection, subterfuge and secret identities, motives both hide and not, like the Agatha Christie yarns it supposedly pastiches? No , not at all, but Adam Sandler has a moustache. He plays beat-cop-with-aspirations-of-being-a-detective Nick Spitz, who is taking his wife Audrey( Aniston, who you have to assume Sandler has some very dark blackmail material on at this spot; or perhaps he’s employing magick or magic, a swear or blood pact, because I cannot meet any logical, career-driven reason for Aniston to appear in films with him, frequently; I simply have to assume a shaman or Polaroids are involved) on a delayed honeymoon around Europe. Anyway, there is a murder while they’re out there. They decide to solve it. You get where this is going.
Here’s the thing: the movie is bad, yes; but bad in a strange, mediocre channel where it’s not bad enough to be bad-bad, just underwhelming. It clocks in at 97 instants; the finale is padded out by an pointless automobile chase; and the cinema is bafflingly stacked with geniu( Gemma Arterton; Terence actual Stamp; Luke Evans, whose main character in the film is to explain, as if talking to a toddler, precisely who everyone is and what’s going on ). It’s set in beautiful orientations but the two precedes detest one another. In fact, their fractured-marriage-that-can-only-be-repaired-by-a-billionaire-being-stabbed-to-death dynamic seems to be the only sense of sophistication in the movie: the exhausted malaise scripted into the Spitzes’ wedlock could be read as a analogy for Sandler’s job, formerly full of promise( you laughed at Happy Gilmore! I know you did !), now knackered, pathetic and going through the motions; Sisyphus flogged- not to a boulder- but to Jennifer Aniston, pushing her up the mountain of humourless romcoms, for ever.
Is Murder Mystery actually about Sandler’s own outing, of falling out of love with film-making, despite being tied to an eight-movie Netflix deal, hoping he was able to ” murder” it and get on with his life without having to form these jerks laugh any more? No, I’m giving him far too much credit. It’s just extremely crap. Apparently, 30 million people watched this film on its opening weekend. Don’t become numeral 30,000, 001.