At the beginning of The Heat, Melissa McCarthy, in the middle of busting a prostitution transaction, grabs a john’s cellphone and brusquely calls his wife with the news of his shameful activity. Later, her trashy Boston cop character will play Russian Roulette with her gun pointed at a drug dealer’s crotch, take FBI agent Sandra Bullock into a nightclub restroom to cut away some of her clothes and make her sexy so she can get close to a suspect and plant a bug in his phone, harass and insult every supervisor without any apparent repercussions, and generally keep stretching the Melissa McCarthy persona. That persona–the perceptive slob–has already deteriorated into caricature (the terrible Identity Thief earlier this year) so you could say there was no where to go with it but upward.
Directed by Paul Feig, The Heat survives mostly on the back of the considerable chemistry between its leads. Less effectively, it introduces the novel concept of the female buddy-cop concept. Problem is, substitute lesser comedic actors in these roles and The Heat would be a pitiful followup to Feig’s and McCarthy’s earlier film, Bridesmaids, whose screenplay went the extra mile toward female empowerment. Here the broad strokes and formulaic trifling bar any loftier ideas from emerging. A likable summer comedy that goes gross but holds back just enough to let you know it’s really only kidding, it reaches out for action film components that merely further dull the clowning.
So it comes down to what you make of McCarthy. Her schtick certainly amuses but two hours feels at least a half-hour too long for its own good. Feig felt the need to give McCarthy a large Boston family that seems like nothing more than a crammed-in, exaggerated version of the one in The Fighter. Jane Curtin (of Saturday Night Live fame) plays McCarthy’s wickedly funny mom, who is still pissed McCarthy arrested and jailed her own brother (Michael Rappaport). For all the screen time this family hogs, the brilliant Curtin is in maybe two scenes…Then there’s a totally superfluous scene involving a tracheotomy (don’t ask).
Bullock’s a perfect foil–buttoned-down and in need of a liberating partner, she’s often as good a “straight man” as Art Carney’s Ed Norton. Maybe I’m reminded of the Honeymooners because the heavy-set McCarthy bullying a smaller partner conjured up something in my subconscious. It certainly wasn’t because this film in any way bears a qualitative resemblance to that classic of early TV. And while McCarthy’s no Jackie Gleason, she’s a surefire talent with a knack for timing. The dam may have burst in setting her up with credible screen roles, however. Once you start franchising rudeness even it runs the risk of going dull.
3 There Are Worse Films Out There (out of 5)