Wedding Crashers
dir. David Dobkin
Opens Fri July 15.

As with most things, I blame Jimmy Fallon: Ever since the once and future SNLer realized he could get more laughs for cracking up during a line than actually completing one, mainstream American comedy has steadily led toward a movement in which footage that would once be relegated to alternate improv takes or end-credit bloopers has somehow become acceptable as the actual movie. Wedding Crashers, the latest high-concept, low-impact joint from the Dodgeball/Starsky/Old School bunch, takes this shambling, what-the-hell approach to new heights (or depths, depending on your perspective). Seemingly conceived, shot, and edited during a four-day weekend, the results, while occasionally amusing, are lazy enough to make '80s ass-gas-or-grass comedies like H.O.T.S. or Hamburger: The Motion Picture look like models of precision timing.

In a nutshell: Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn are lawyers who get their kicks by boozily infiltrating the nuptials of strangers, eventually meeting their match with a pair of Kennedyesque sisters. Christopher Walken drops by to do his thing. This is all likely to go over like gangbusters at the box office (the mere appearance of a certain super secret guest star—i.e., the guy in all these movies who isn't Ben Stiller—brought the preview audience to hysterical tears, even before he opened his mouth), but the overall sloppiness and genial contempt for the viewer is tough to ignore. Things aren't completely dire—one dinner-table scene favorably recalls early Farrelly Brothers raunch, and the pint-sized Isla Fisher is a genuine find as Vaughn's nympho romantic interest—but whatever the surface pleasures, the concept of rewarding talented folks to just hang out in front of the camera and have a ball still chafes. I mean, sheesh, the Rat Pack had more discipline. Even Dino. ■