Flak Magazine: Review of Talladega Nights, 08-18-06

Will Ferrell's starring vehicles are explorations of the beleaguered American male: the aging Frat Guy of Old School, the infantilized corporate drone in Elf, the musky male chauvenist Ron Burgundy, the emasculated Ditka-fearing soccer dad of Kicking and Screaming. Ferrell's characters are confused about what it means to be a man, the comedy coming from their journey of realization: Frank the Tank putting aside a trip to Bed Bath and Beyond to bong a beer, Ron Burgundy trapped in glass case of emotion after losing his woman.

Likewise, "Manliness" has been the dominating theme of American politics since 9/11. Ricky Bobby represents the convergence of the two: Will Ferrell's statement about the Southern macho culture that's given rise to the Republican majority. Ferrell and director/co-writer Adam McKay never directly address this, but in taking on NASCAR Nation, they flank attack the tough-talking, anti-intellectual bravado that forced pussified liberals to defend their love of America and the B-2 bomber. Considering Ferrell's previous eviscerations of Bush, one might expect a straight satire, a sort of redneck Anchorman.

Instead, to mixed results, The Ballad of Ricky Bobby is a comic remix of ESPN's "3". By sticking to the biopic formula, the filmmakers don't risk alienating their audience, nor do they artificially shoehorn a bunch of preachy politics into a wacky comedy. They simply throw Ferrell into the Barry Pepper/Dale Earnhardt role and let the story make the statement for them. Ricky Bobby's catchphrase ("If you ain't first, you're last!") could plausibly be a "No Fear" T-shirt design: It captures the blustery nonsense of the American macho culture.

In fact, Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby puts forth one of the more intriguing ideas in American cinema this year: The French NASCAR driver. "Jean Girard" is introduced in pinstripe suit and pastel tie, playing jazz on the jukebox, reading a newspaper, smoking a long, skinny Gitanes. While racing, Jean listens to opera, sips macchiato from a tea cup through his helmet, and reads Camus. His crew chief won a Nobel Prize for physics. And he's gay!

The driver of the 55 Perrier car is purportedly French. Rather, he's "French": A collage of effete, intellectual caricatures that make up the American notion of Frenchness. It's this stereotype of "Frenchness" the neocon Right cultivated and exploited to bully the American people into supporting the Iraq War, and to demonize opponents of the Administrations conduct of the war (remember the Bush Administration whispers in early 2004 that John Kerry "looks French"). Sasha Baron Cohen's accent isn't even caricatured French, like Steve Martin's Inspector Clouseau, but an anonymous "European" accent more un-NASCAR than even the new wave of clean-cut California drivers. In fact, if Girard were teammates with Jeff Gordon, he'd bring a whole new meaning to the term "Rainbow Warrior."

He's the perfect villain for the earnest idiot. When Jean Girard strolls across his manicured estate, stroking his horses (also gay) with his husband Gregory (Andy Richter), wearing fabulous silk blends and having tea with Elvis Costello and Mos Def, he stands against everything Ricky Bobby stands for. To talk trash, Girard quotes William Blake; Ricky Bobby relies on his inane catch phrase "Shake and Bake!" Girard prefers the silence and sophistication of his finely-designed country estate. Ricky Bobby is brash, he's in your face, and that's the way he sells gum: "If you don't chew Big Red, then fuck you." Ricky Bobby is complete nonsense, but it doesn't make any difference because he's so cocksure ("I get up in the morning and I piss excellence." "I'm a big hairy American winning machine!")

It's this facade, the boisterous balderdash of Ricky Bobby that Ferrell keys on for his satire of the new Southern gentleman. Ricky Bobby's kids "Walker" and "Texas Ranger" are the most horrible little shits put on screen since The Children of the Corn. They hurl obscenities at their grandpa, and Bobby eggs them on ("I love the way they're talkin' to you, old man!") It's not just the American macho thing, but suburban narcissism — in other words, the new market of NASCAR.

If one wanted to give too much credit to the artistic design of Talladega Nights, you could argue that the pervasive, overbearing product placement is a statement about the utter shamelessness of Ricky Bobby himself — even his grace to the Dear Lord Baby Jesus is sponsored by KFC. Still, McKay and Ferrell seem like they don't want to push too hard; they don't want to offend by bringing Bush into it. Ferrell blunts the impact of Ricky Bobby by turning the film into a family drama. They seem content to let the actors improvise around the biopic structure, which gives us some very funny moments (gold stars to John C. Reilly as the schlubby best friend and Gary Cole as the no-good mangy dad), but leaves the movie a little flat. Unlike Ricky Bobby, Ferrell doesn't take chances. He cuts and runs from truly comedic opportunities.

— Stephen Himes (stephenhimes@hotmail.com)