The Wendell Baker Story
Directed by Luke & Andrew Wilson
There’s no shame in recognizing that actors are usually tools. Meticulously ordered like chess pieces on a black and white canvas of storytelling conventions, the faces in front of the camera act as vessels for vision emanating behind it. That vision isn’t necessarily dictated by an enterprising director; the trajectory of star power is a beast almost unanimously determined by the audience. Thus, Will Ferrell’s boring role, as the dorky boyfriend of Luke Wilson’s former flame, in The Wendell Baker Story begs the question: Why won’t the talented funnyman act funny?
That sort of problem constantly plagues Wendell Baker, written and directed by Wilson with his brother Andrew and starring a half dozen familiar faces. Expectations fly in various directions, but the performers lack sufficient material to keep them caged within the boundaries of their collective comedic potential. To his credit, Luke Wilson crafts an intriguing titular character for himself. Wendell Baker is a grown-up Ferris Bueller, packed with dynamite one-liners and oily-slick cons. The crackerjack Southerner’s schemes lose speed when a burgeoning fake ID business gets busted by the cops. Wendell’s subsequent jail time causes him to neglect his brainless gal, Doreen (Eva Mendes), who looks pretty and barely speaks, turning her bland and inconsequential.
Wendell doesn’t think so: Once out of jail and intent on reforming his ways, he joins the staff of a loopy old folks home and plots with the residents to help him win back the desired gal. His two compatriots bring elegance to the elemental plot, and its best attempts at strong humor. Harry Dean Stanton and Seymour Cassell have genuine Odd Couple chemistry, so it’s a shame that they wind up wasted on an aimless story that involves rescuing abandoned elders and hitting on underage blondes.
Speaking of blondes, Wendell Baker is a family affair: Wilson number three shows up as the corrupt manager of the old folks’ pad, and, frankly, Owen has never been more annoying. Playing a grinning asshole with plans for black-market schemes along with his cackling sidekick (Eddie Griffin), who absorbs the imbecilic vibes, Wilson doesn’t do a bad job, but the script lacks any hook to ground his cynicism in credibility. The character’s wry edge isn’t counterbalanced by any redeeming traits, leaving only dismaying meanness. The opposite problem occurs with a secretive retiree played by Kris Kristofferson. Although intended to give the movie its wise, humanistic side, the part is underwritten so that Kristofferson seems like a soft-spoken deity in a mediocre universe. Maybe that’s intentional.
Either way, the biggest oddity comes from Luke Wilson himself. Generally an endearing performer, he seems intent on ripping off the Wes Anderson aesthetic that gave him and Owen a major playing field to bat around their artistry. In an odd twist of star-shuffling fate, his own material is below him.
