Stretch
(2014)
(SPOILERS) I should know by now what to expect from a Joe
Carnahan film. Narc, which was
rightly regarded as in impressive calling card (I’ll ignore his actual debut which
sounds more like his subsequent fare; Blood,
Guts, Bullets and Octane), has proved to be the exception to the rule. As a
director Carnahan is more than accomplished, with a talent for pacing and narrative
drive, even if he too often resorts to sensory overload. As a writer he resembles
a sub-Tarantino hack who probably comes up with all his best ideas after an
enormous bong hit. So it is with Stretch,
a dependably energetic piece of filmmaking with the occasional moment of real
flair but based on a script infused with adolescent excitability and a belief
that it is much funnier than it actually is.
The chief problem with Stretch,
which anyone who has seen Smokin’ Aces
(or, for that matter, the heavy-handed and self-regarding The Grey) would be aware of, is that it’s one of those pictures
that is far, far too pleased with itself. It’s certainly done nothing to earn such
smugness. Unless you’re a hyperactive teenager who gives anything with tits and
blow and snickering crudity a free pass, in which case this might be the best
movie ever. It’s probably also ideal for
stoners who rate goofy, crazy shit and think From Dusk Till Dawn is Tarantino’s best movie. Actually, I get the
impression Carnahan has been on a Shane Black binge (Kiss Kiss Kiss Bang Bang in particular) and asininely thinks he’ll approximate
some of that.
Stretch might have
worked if the gags and plotlines landed, but Carnahan’s choices have a tendency
to try the patience and provoke rising annoyance. Stretch (Patrick Wilson), a stretch limo driver (presumably
his name is intended to be all existential like Walter Hill’s The Driver but funny), is an ex-coke
fiend and gambler, dumped by his girlfriend for a quarterback, who is told he
needs to pay off his $6k debt before the end of the day while competing with a
rival limo company, interacting with deceased fellow driver Karl (Ed Helms) and
attempting to hook up Pink Minx (the date he has met on the Internet).
Stretch
is beset by troublesome clients (including David Hasselhoff and Carnahan
regular Ray Liotta in cantankerous spoof versions of themselves) until call
centre operative Charlie (Jessica Alba) tips him that an old fare of Karl’s, billionaire
Karos (Chris Pine), could be his generous benefactor for the evening. Stretch
agrees to do Karos’ bidding, but it quickly becomes evident the financier is
involved in some very shady business (a pyramid investment scheme that went
belly-up) and is wanted by the FBI.
Carnahan’s construction and characters are ramped up but
still manage to be over-familiar. Stretch’s incessant voiceover should be
engagingly stoical but instead has an aggravating, insistent conceitedness.
It’s too much noise in an already over-noisy picture. Lines like “Starting today I am putting the goddam
shovel down” may be meant to make Stretch a bit of a self-aggrandising
dick, but Carnahan doesn’t seem to know the difference between mockery and
veneration. It’s the elusive Downey Jr in Kiss
Kiss factor.
I usually like Wilson, but he seems unable to make Stretch
much of anything. It’s not really his fault as Carnahan lacks an all-important
lightness of touch; he’s utterly charmless, so his characters follow suit. While
he’s a good kinetic director, he tends to over-indulge and over-edit. During
the first 20 minutes or so, Stretch
looks like it might downright stink, so it’s a small compliment that Carnahan
gets it moving in spite of the mediocre screenplay.
The one long night into disaster is well-mined territory and
sort of writes itself (see Into the Night for a great example of
the genre); all you have to do is to keep up the eventful encounters and have a
destination in mind. Stretch’s destination can be seen coming a mile off (it’s
evident halfway through that Charlie must be Pink Minx, but Carnahan still
treats it as a big reveal), yet it is
actually quite sweet and Alba – who has been consigned to the dustbin of Robert
Rodriguez dreck lately – makes a winning object of affection. It helps that
Carnahan throws so much at the screen, some of it is bound to stick; he sets up
several ticking clocks and recurring antagonists (in that sense it mirrors
After Hours), and charges on
regardless through the frequent bumpy spots.
Cameos include a dreadfully unfunny appearance from Hasselhoff
doing a sweary-nasty of himself (“You’re
a punk-ass motherfucker! You don’t have any respect for the Hoff!”). Liotta
is fine, but he’s more fun in his Muppets
Most Wanted cameo. Helms’ ghostly apparition (in Stretch’s mind) is also a
misfire, an over-the-top confidante “wearing
a moustache he said he grew in Hell” that Carnahan should have pruned (he’s
utterly superfluous anyway). I’m quite sure Carnahan was pumping his fist in
the air over how awesome all this sounded as he wrote it. But it really isn’t
unless your fourteen again, or even for the first time. There’s no irony or
distance that might allow actual humour
or foster wry observation.
Pine, who played a memorable psychopath in Smokin’ Aces, is enrolled as another
nutter here complete with maximum beardage. His character epitomises the
director’s “hilarious excess” approach, complete with protruding testicles,
whoring, substance abuse and intense/antic disposition. I was put in mind of a
much less endearing version of Rob Lowe’s (quite brilliant) Lenny Nero in Californication. There’s way too much bedazzlement
by the hedonistic lifestyle in Carnahan’s filmmaking. He may be living the
adolescent dream, but “It’s raining tits”
and having a “rape party” are depressingly
juvenile.
If Carnahan made a fatalistic
meal of Liam Neeson’s existential angst in The
Grey, he takes a similarly glib approach to Stretch. He scoffs at fate; “To me, life’s nothing but timing”. So James Badge Dale’s FBI guy (Dale’s a great
actor, but the role, very sub-Aces,
doesn’t have enough room to become interesting) tells him “My friend, everything happens for a reason. It has to be that way. It
would be too depressing otherwise”). Elsewhere Stretch, a wannabe thesp,
repeats the mantra “Own the space” to
embolden himself in any given hairy situation but Wilson fails to make us
believe that Stretch can do this stuff (far more appropriate is the moment
where he boasts “It’s like I’m five steps
ahead” as he is removing the limo number plate, only for a young rap
hooligan to steal his wheels).
Carnahan throws all kinds of macho bullshit into the mix.
There’s no apparent self-censorship here. Sub-Fight Club punching oneself in the face? Why ever not? References
to driving Charlie Sheen? A bit passé, no? But as tiresome as Carnahan’s
schtick can be, he comes up with occasional winners. The sequence in which
Stretch has to regain control of the disabled limo is amusingly desperate. The
sight of a tiny disco ball, miraculously appeared in the back, is a nice nutty touch,
as are the subtitles of the Eastern European aggressor from the rival firm that
appear in… Eastern European.
Stretch ended up
bypassing cinemas to VOD, reportedly because Universal didn’t see the point
releasing a $5m-budgeted picture that might not recoup its distribution costs.
Which is no marker of how good or bad it is; it’s actually neither actively
terrible nor great, making their decision a sound one financially. I find it
difficult to summon sympathy for the hard done-by artist in this case as I have
a feeling Carnahan is a bit of meathead, deluded that his scenarios are dynamite
and every line he writes (or snorts) is gold dust. Chances are, if you loved Smokin’ Aces, you’ll adore this. If you
though that film was ADD overkill with just a few occasional inspired moments,
then you’ve got a good idea of what to expect from Stretch. Steroidal filmmaking on a budget, like a slightly more
respectable version of Michael Bay. Carnahan’s movies are exhausting, but not
in a good way.
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