That Just Happened

Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby is, like its star Will Ferrell, a bit off-beat. We now have two feature-length collaborations between writer/actor Ferrell and writer Adam McKay (the other is 2004’s Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy), and there are a slew of similarities.

The plot arc for Talladega Nights is basically the same as Anchorman. We meet a self-absorbed ‘man’s man’ who is at the forefront of his profession; he’s rude, stupid, and irresponsible, but he’s good. His small, comfortable world is threatened by the Other—a woman newscaster in Anchorman and a gay, French, Formula-1 racer in Talladega Nights—and, because he is ill-equipped to deal with anything that is too different from himself, he monomaniacally attempts to unseat his nemesis and succeeds only in spelling his own professional demise. Redemption is offered, he accepts, and reconciliation is sealed with a kiss. But, at least through two movies, this formula hasn’t spoiled. Perhaps it is because of the drastic difference in detail—from 1970’s San Diego to ostensibly modern-day Nascar. Perhaps, though, it is because Ferrell and McKay’s formula is itself a dig at the traditional comedic formula, so that, while his own movies are similar to each other, they are still different enough from the norm to seem fresh.

Ferrell and McKay create characters that begin as stock comedic parts, then tweak them just enough to keep audiences off balance. They offer a fairly straightforward scenario, then devolve it into gleeful bizarreness. Much of this is accomplished by adding an objective self-reflectivity to his characters. For instance, Ricky Bobby is quirky, his colleagues are idiots, and his wife is only interested in celebrity and money—all of which is nothing new for a comedy. But, by allowing each character to offer commentary on his or her actions as the story progresses, all of them realizing their limitations without showing much interest in self-betterment, McKay and Ferrell stretch and deepen the genre in a delightfully refreshing way.
Ultimately, the reflexive nature of the hero is what allows Ferrell and McKay’s movies to crest. At the end of Talladega Nights, Ricky Bobby’s friend and racing partner Cal Naughton (John C. Reilly) is still a feeble-minded dolt, his wife Carley (Leslie Bibb) is still a heartless money-grubber, his new ‘lady’ Susan (Amy Adams) is no sweeter than she was at the beginning of the movie, and his dad Reese Bobby (Gary Cole) is still a no-account, multiple-time loser who has trouble caring about himself, much less anyone else. The only thing that has changed is Ricky Bobby himself. For Ferrell and McKay, fear of the Other is simply a symptom of a self-ignorant malaise. By merely looking inside to become a more fully-realized version of himself, Ricky Bobby (like Ron Burgundy before him) is able to overcome his aversion to that which is different. Not coincidentally, Ricky’s sons Walker (Houston Tumlin) and Texas Ranger (Grayson Russell), the Superego to Ricky’s Id, outwardly enact their father’s inward journey, morphing from foul-mouthed hellions into even-tempered angels. The central figure of Ricky Bobby, then, acts as a lynchpin that ignites dynamism in the otherwise static secondary characters; his change allows them to be completed. Ricky’s family becomes more functional than it ever had been, his ex-wife and best friend are reconciled to him, he finds a woman who loves him beyond his money, and even his nemesis Jean Girard (Sacha Baron Cohen, aka Ali G and Borat) is released into his long-awaited retirement with his mate. Ferrell is consummate in this role. His grasp of an eccentric character and impeccable feel for comedic timing have made Ron Burgundy and Ricky Bobby—characters who, in most hands, would have fallen into tedious parody—successes.

Beyond Ferrell and McKay, though, the supporting cast in Talladega Nights is not to be ignored. Amy Adams as Susan has an unfortunately unsubstantial role, but she capitalizes on her limited screen time with a particularly fiery motivational speech to push Ricky back into racing. Sacha Baron Cohen makes Girard both threatening and loveable. Here is a character whose only enemy is Ricky Bobby; audiences may recognize all the trappings of a villain in him, yet they are most likely to simply wish him the best. From accent to facial contortions to quirky Europeanisms, Girard is a cartoon character saddled with the sad predicament of having skin. John C. Reilly is typically brilliant as the endearingly clueless Cal. Reilly has acquired the ability to play any part and seamlessly integrate himself into the lifeblood of whatever movie he is in. Like Cal, Reilly rarely soaks in the spotlight; rather, he is willing to place himself second in the better interest of the film. Greg German and Molly Shannon are an entertaining pair as owners of Ricky’s racing team. German’s nervous chatter combined with Shannon’s drunken spatter make them a fairly classic teaming. Will Ferrell will likely garner most of the attention for the film, and he is quite good, but Talladega Nights succeeds because it is carried by solid professional performances across the board.

For now, then, Ferrell and McKay have a winning formula. But, as we have seen with the likes of Jim Carrey and Adam Sandler, what is at first a fresh schtick can become tiresomely stale quickly. Carrey (The Truman Show, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) and Sandler (Punch-Drunk Love, Spanglish) have found ways to break out of their early molds, allowing each actor to remain relevant and enjoy success in a variety of genres. Even Woody Allen, a more direct analog to the writing duo, has used movies such as What’s Up, Tiger Lily? and Match Point to flesh out his world of rom-angst-ic comedy Ferrell and McKay should take note. Anchorman and Talladega Nights have been wonderfully funny movies, but theirs are writers who are gifted enough to explore and manipulate other formulae, as well. Here’s hoping they’re up to the task.