The art of the cockblock is both ancient and deadly, much like Joan Rivers. You can do it to yourself, or, for more fun and exciting adventures in douchebaggery, you can do it to someone else. Somehow, Vince Vaughn managed to do both in the flaccid flop that was Delivery Man. Do they make Viagra for movies? I sure as fuck hope so, because the only action that happened south of the border in this flick was when I cut a hole in the bottom of my popcorn bucket and offered some to the hot guy stage right.
Delivery Man follows loveable shmuck and affable fuck-up, David, as he slips, trips, and lands dick first in trouble so deep Adele would take a hard pass on rolling in it. From loan sharks to 533 spank bank surprises suing to discover their daddy, David learns that it’s never too late to grow up. Will he find the joy in fatherhood at last? Will David ever realize that doing the right thing can lead to a happiness rivaled only by quaalude-stuffed-deep-fried-Twinkies? Will I ever NOT get blackout drunk before funerals? No, the answer to that last one is no.
You’re not pregnant and you didn’t get herpes. So that’s the good news. The rest of it is less awesome. Vince Vaughn is riding on the fumes of funny, and his hoopty-ass schtick is getting old. Looking at this film through the drunk-goggles of Wedding Crashers nostalgia, Vaughn’s crooked smile and man-child antics were moderately charming and eminently watchable. Take those motherfuckers off and Vaughn was an annoying jackass beating tired plot devices and predicktable hijinks to a slow and agonizing death. But, you know, congrats on that no-herps, baby-free thing.
To be fair, there were some genuinely touching moments up in this bitch; totally predictable, entirely engineered, man-made, touching moments. David’s father, played by the quietly endearing Andrzej Blumenfield, was a revelation of gravitas and heart. His old-world charm and authentic charisma balanced the over-earnest and blatantly ponderous Vaughn (who spent most of his time wading through emotional landmines with all the grace of a coked-up ferret riding a tilt-a-wheel stuck on warp ten). But again, congrats on that STD-free, spawnless existence.
Delivery Man banked its entire premise on the relatable nature, and marketability, of Vince Vaughn (and it was their downfall). With peripheral talent to shore up this bitch, the film kept afloat… Barely. As mentioned in the Toast, I’m predisposed to like Vaughn on nostalgia alone (based on the halcyon days of Wedding Crashers and Old School) but in the deeper emotional waters of Delivery Man, his fast-talking, soiled, anti-everyman-with-a-heart, floundered and went down faster than a hobo with a McMuffin on the line.
To be fair, there were a few genuinely touching moments amidst the dross of mediocrity (but they were few and far between), though watching Vaughn’s eyes tear up like clockwork, perfectly synced to a musical score, kind of took the punch out that pussy… No cats were harmed in the writing of this review.
I may not be smarter than the average bear, but I feel reasonably confident I’m smarter than the average crustacean. And also smarter than the audience Delivery Man was aiming for, which, I assume, were recent stroke victims. It’s the only explanation for the repetitive jokes, dumbed-down plot, and shallow characters. The peripheral talent was absolutely misused in this circle-jerk of bland. Cobie Smulders, David’s love interest, was nothing more than a predictable plot device with little-to-no creative expression in her character (other than what was required to further the film along to it’s entirely expected and wholly unoriginal end). Por que Robin Sparkles, por que?
Not to mention my number one comedian-I-wish-I-could-bang pick on my XXX-Mas List, Chris Pratt. Best guess he got lost and wandered on set where he was tied to a radiator and beaten until he agreed to co-star in Delivery Man. Pratt was wasted as the sad-sack best friend, given nothing but clichés and a ratty robe and left to prop up his character, Brett, with his own natural charm and charisma. With the right dialogue and plot (not ripped off from every Lifetime movie ever made) there was potential here for (if not a groundbreaking, breathtaking cinematic revelation), at the very least, an enjoyable ode to masturbation, and the aftereffects of not pulling out.
The stunning lack of creativity and originality in Delivery Man rivaled anything Kim Kardashian has ever done; I’m including breathing. The worst part is that it wasn’t terrible, it wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever seen, it wasn’t even top five bad decisions I’ve made this month. Delivery Man was a forgettably bland, entirely transient, assault on my long-term memory that I’m pretty sure enough tequila and beer will eventually erase. I’m not even mad at it… JUST DISAPPOINTED AT LEAST I LEARNED THAT MUCH FROM MY FATHER I JUST WISH HE’D HUGGED ME MORE.
This shit was so paint-by-numbers a narcoleptic Bob Ross could’ve sketched out the plot before going to take a Cleveland Steamer on some happy little clouds. Much like an Ikea bookcase, from beginning to end, everything was mapped out and happened in the place and time it had to in order to push this lackluster turd down the poop shute of mediocrity. Delivery Man was like being stabbed repeatedly in the face by Little Debbie’s snack cakes, at first you like it, then tolerate it, and then abduct, torture and eventually murder it. Allegedly. No Little Debbie’s snack cakes were harmed in the wri- hahaha just kidding; I destroyed three boxes of HoHo’s knocking this out.
Delivery Man was like banging an okay-looking dude while wearing beer goggles. You’ve made worse decisions. Probably. At some point.
Take a Drink: every time life kicks David square in the nuts.
Take a Sip: for each Post-It note.
Take a Drink: whenever anybody talks about kids. Pace yourself.
Do a Shot: for Breaking and Entering: David’s Home Edition.
Take a Drink: each time David gets misty-eyed/for every hug.
Do a Shot: for every individual kid David meets/Facebook profile page.
Shotgun a Beer: for the 534th kid.