ZOOLANDER NO. 2 (12A)
2 stars
Oscar Wilde famously quipped: “You can never be overdressed or overeducated.”
Ben Stiller’s sequel is festooned with beautiful people draped in gorgeous fabrics and accessorised with brief appearances from the fashion cognoscenti, including American Vogue’s editor-in-chief Anna Wintour and designers Tommy Hilfiger, Marc Jacobs, Valentino and Alexander Wang.
Unfortunately, when it comes to intellect and wit, Zoolander No. 2 doesn’t have a pair of functioning brain cells to rub together.
Scripted by a four-man committee comprising Stiller, Justin Theroux, Nicholas Stoller and John Hamburg, this Bond-esque high-stakes globetrotting caper feels like it has been cobbled together from half-baked ideas that failed to pass quality control back in 2001.
Like a model tottering precariously down a catwalk on outlandishly high heels, the film is awkward and ungainly, destined to fall flat on its face at least once before the end credits roll.
Stiller and co-star Owen Wilson gamely throw themselves into the fray as numbskull walking clothes horses, flanked by returning cast member Will Ferrell as the film’s bouffant archvillain and new additions Penelope Cruz and Kristen Wiig as femme fatales of law and disorder.
Designer-label comic talent of this calibre should glister, but we don’t care a stitch about their garish caricatures.
In a snappy, tongue-in-cheek opening sequence, which turns out to be a false dawn, gun-toting assassins on motorcycles chase Justin Bieber through the labyrinthine streets of Rome.
“You can’t kill us all. We will protect The Chosen One,” declares the pop prince defiantly before a hail of bullets tears through his chart-topping body.
As he takes his final breath, he adopts the “Blue Steel” facial pout that was once the signature of male model Derek Zoolander (Stiller) and posts a selfie online.
Agent Melanie Valentina (Cruz), from Interpol’s Global Fashion Division, connects the death of Bieber to similar cases involving Madonna, Usher and Bruce Springsteen.
She employs her womanly wiles – honed during an inglorious period as a swimsuit model – to recruit Derek and good friend Hansel (Wilson) into the ranks to unmask the perpetrators.
Evidence leads to fashion doyenne Alexanya Atoz (Wiig) and psychopath Jacobim Mugatu (Ferrell), who is safely behind bars.
Meanwhile, Derek orchestrates a belated reunion with his plus-size son (Cyrus Arnold).
“We’re too different, and it’s too late,” sobs Derek jun.
Zoolander No. 2 is gormless and charmless, and mustering affection for the lead character is a mission: impossible.
Indeed, when a hi-tech smart bomb threatens to obliterate everyone in sight, I can’t be alone in wishing the device might detonate early.
Flaccid cameos abound, including Benedict Cumberbatch, John Malkovich, Willie
Nelson, Katy Perry,
Susan Sarandon and Kiefer Sutherland.
Every faltering, misguided and soulless frame is doused liberally in the latest celebrity fragrance, eau de desperation, and Stiller’s picture reeks.
CONCUSSION (12A)
3 stars
You don’t need a medical degree or any of the titles held by Will Smith’s crusading medic in Concussion to conclude that a contact sport which delivers repeated blows to the head might pose a health risk to competitors.
In boxing, when a fighter is blindsided by a punch, they are
assessed by the referee, given a standing count and asked if they wish to continue.
In American football, when a player is dazed by a collision with the equivalent g-force of a sledgehammer to the cranium, they shake it off and return to the field of play.
This blitzkrieg of bone-crunching tackles continues for up to an hour every Sunday for 17 weeks, with the promise of more pain if a team qualifies for the Super Bowl playoffs.
Professionals with careers that stretch into double digits can look forward to more than 45,000 blows to the head.
Writer-director Peter Landesman’s film pays glorious tribute to Dr Bennet Omalu, the Nigerian forensic pathologist, who challenged studies by the National Football League (NFL) which concluded that there was no evidence of players experiencing neck injury or concussion.
It’s a rousing tale of a mild-mannered underdog versus a hulking corporate giant that paints the central character as a saint who never strays from the path of righteous indignation, even when he loses everything.
If it weren’t based on a true story, Landesman’s script would be impossible to swallow.
The film opens in September 2002, in Pittsburgh, where Omalu (Smith) works diligently at the Allegheny County Coroner’s Office under his snarky mentor Dr Cyril Wecht (Albert Brooks).
The death of NFL legend Mike Webster (David Morse) draws a media circus and Omalu coolly performs the autopsy.
Cross-sections of the player’s brain reveal that he was suffering from a progressive degenerative brain condition, which Omalu christens chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE).
His findings challenge the NFL hierarchy spearheaded by boo-hiss executive Christopher Jones (Hill Harper).
The NFL vociferously denounces Omalu’s research, even when Dr Julian Bailes (Alec Baldwin), former team physician of the Pittsburgh Steelers, breaks ranks to pledge unstinting support.
“Bennet Omalu is going to war with the manufacturer of a product that 20million Americans crave every Sunday the way they crave water,” summarises Wecht dryly.
Concussion is blessed with a knockout lead performance from Smith, who nails his character’s accent and steely resolve.
Unfortunately, his trailblazer is too perfect to be believable or engaging, and a tentative romance between Omalu and his house-guest (Gugu Mbatha-Raw) feels contrived, providing Smith’s luminous co-star with various rallying cries for justice.
“If you don’t speak for the dead, who will?” she coos.
Heroes and villains are sketched in black and white, and dramatic momentum builds to a centrepiece speech that proves one impossibly good man can take on the bullies – and win.