‘The Shitheads’ Review: Macon Blair’s Stoner Comedy Is All Laughs… Until It Turns Sour
In Macon Blair’s latest film, Virginia ain’t for lovers anymore, it’s for shitheads … er, “The Shitheads.”
As per the filmmaker’s modus operandi, he’s back with another absurd American underbelly tale. It’s a snout-to-tail Macon Blair experience, about no good down-on-their-luckers who stumble into dangerous hijinks. You’ll laugh, you’ll wince, and you’ll wonder how much chaos the unpredictable filmmaker can cram into his script. Expect everything from lycan rappers to bouts of explosive diarrhea, in an effort to inspire any glimmer of motivation in unmotivatingly terrible times.
Dave Franco and O’Shea Jackson Jr. star as the titular “shitheads,” two slackers who end up working for the same transportation gig. Mark (Dave Franco) just lost his desk job, and Davis (O’Shea Jackson Jr.) lost his van access after an “Antichrist”-related incident. Together, the duo hops in Mark’s beaten-down sedan to drive a troubled rich teenager — Sheridan (Mason Thames) — to his future rehab facility. Stay on the road, stay out of trouble and reach the finish line. That shouldn’t be too hard for Mark and Davis, right?
“The Shitheads” is a nonchalant stoner comedy about the fine line between doing your best and microdosing through the bare minimum. Mark is often inebriated, bringing along pills and spiked liquids that launch him to the moon. Davis is a man of God who listens to public-access pastors, although he’s been unceremoniously shunned by Pastor William Armstrong (Killer Mike Render). Together, they’re your typical odd couple — with Sheridan thrown in as an agent of chaos. It’s a comedic trio that finds its belly laughs in roadside diner spats and interactions with cartoonish folks who strive to make their lives more difficult.
Franco’s never resembled his brother more, mimicking James’ mannerisms and vocal cadence whenever Mark flips the switch on sobriety. He’s peskily funny, especially when Sheridan teases the hard-tripping doofus by heightening his paranoia with strange offhanded comments. Fraco plays a suitable instigator for Jackson Jr.’s more buttoned-up career man, whose short fuse causes plenty of comedic dissension. It’s your typical “strangers to buddies” arc, but with Blair’s signature sense of mind-rotted humor. These boys can be dumb as rocks, whether drugged or mentally clear, and yet we still root for their success.
Mason Thames’ internet-famous billionaire’s son is there to drive wedges even further when arguments spark, or just laugh at the bozos currently posing as his guardians. He’s an upper-class demon spawn, unloved by perma-vacationing parents, and left to his own lonely devices. Blair draws clear Donald Trump parallels to the way Seridan buys his way out of problems and keeps advancing upward, but the film struggles with how far to push this legitimate “shithead.” Everything’s goofy and pestery for a while, as Sheridan provokes his handlers with all the malice of a “Reno 911!” episode, but then a cataclysmic event changes how we see Sheridan, and the movie never recovers.
In a scene involving Mark, Sheridan and a thickly accented Kiernan Shipka as Irina, an exotic Eastern European dancer, Blair morphs Sheridan from another privileged schmuck suffering from affluenza into an outright monster. At this point, “The Shitheads” ditches its loosey-goosey dark comedy vibes and leaves you with a sour taste — but a few scenes later, Blair’s back to his lighter criminal shenanigans. However, the damage is inflicted. The tone has shifted, and we’re no longer in the same headspace. There’s no longer a devil on Sheridan’s shoulders; he is the devil. Blair loses control of the overall mood, and, worse, doesn’t see Sheridan’s arc through to a fulfilling payoff that atones for the seismic redirect that brings “The Shitheads” to a screeching halt roughly a third, or even half, of the way through.
That’s not to say all laughs evaporate. Franco and Jackson Jr. keep the momentum going as they plan motel heists and aid Irina on a quest for vengeance. Peter Dinklage shows up as “Koko,” the white trash gangster who saves a fibbing Sheridan (hilariously, his gang resembles The Killer Nutz from Blair’s “Toxic Avenger” remake). That’s how we meet Nicholas Braun’s scene-stealing Eminem wannabe in a rubber werewolf mask, and Blair’s penchant for backwoods weirdness shines brightest. Bad times get worse, bullets start flying, and our stupor-heros find themselves on an odyssey that defies logic in uniquely moronic ways.
Frustratingly, “The Shitheads” never find its identity after Sheridan’s villain arc takes center stage. Doubling down, a prevailing message that “the world will always suck, all you can do is push on” feels more patronizing by the day. That second part isn’t Blair’s fault, but on the same weekend ICE agents just killed another innocent civilian, it’s difficult to muster enthusiasm for a story about the little guys digging through crap just to survive while the one percent cruise by with no repercussions.
“The Shitheads” isn’t Blair at his best (that’s “I Don’t Feel At Home In This World”), but it’s Blair playing to his wheelhouse. It’s a high-floor, lower-ceiling experience for fans of the filmmaker (who appears as Mark’s thigh-exposing drug dealer). Blair is a humorous fellow with some bonkers ideas, and you can sense how passionate a creator he is, to the point where “The Shitheads” reads like a love letter to his past releases. But as the adage goes, one bad apple can spoil the whole bunch. And while “The Shitheads” doesn’t turn completely, it never fully recovers from what ends up feeling like an out-of-place, car-into-a-brick-wall choice of a tonal crater.
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