Last Vegas: a Geritol-powered Hangover
AP Movie Critic (*)
One doesn’t exactly expect Death in Venice from a movie that begins on a shot of female cellulite jiggling beneath the surface of a Florida community pool. But as various senior-centric pics have proven, from Martin Brest’s delightful caper Going in Style to Ron Howard’s Cocoon, going gray isn’t automatically an impediment to a screenplay that consists of more than death and Viagra jokes. But Last Vegas’ scribe Dan Fogelman (who wrote the monumentally smarter and shrewder Crazy, Stupid, Love) pretty much sticks to the lowest common denominator as he contrives to get four childhood friends together in Sin City for the bachelor party of the last unmarried man among them.
He’s named Billy and played by a blow-dried, spray-tanned Michael Douglas in what feels like a watered-down version of the actor’s magnificent ageing lothario from 2009’s Solitary Man. When Billy impulsively proposes to his strapping 31-year-old girlfriend (in the midst of delivering a friend’s eulogy, no less), best bud Sam (Kevin Kline) — the one trapped in that infernal Florida swimming pool — suggests a boy’s weekend in Vegas, and the rest of this white-haired wolf pack is soon to follow. Back when they were kids on the streets of Brooklyn, Billy and his pals were known as the Flatbush Four, though now they’re mainly just flat and bushed: in addition to Sam, there’s stroke survivor Archie (Morgan Freeman, essentially reprising his Bucket List character) and surly widower Paddy (Robert De Niro), who hasn’t forgiven Billy for skipping out on his wife’s funeral (she was their shared childhood sweetheart).
From all points they converge on the ultra-luxurious Aria casino resort, where they find themselves comped with a penthouse suite — and a personal concierge (Romany Malco) — after Archie cleans house at the blackjack table. That pretty much gives them the run of the place, though they do make one important side trip to nearby Binion’s, where Billy catches the eye of a jazz chanteuse shimmering in a sparkly mauve gown as she belts out Only You in a desolate hotel bar.
The singer, Diana (Mary Steenburgen), is also “of a certain age” and has been around the block a few times, but unlike her male counterparts in Last Vegas, she’s been written as more than a one-dimensional type, and she’s played by the marvellous Steenburgen with a richness that goes even beyond what’s on the page. She’s an oasis of real, grown-up emotion in a movie that often feels more sophomoric (and a lot less funny) than the concurrent Bad Grandpa.
The rest of the movie rarely if ever rises to Steenburgen’s level. Most of the comic payoffs are so obviously telegraphed that the audience can see them coming within a few frames of the setup. Actors like these can sometimes be a pleasure to watch even when saddled with sitcom material, because their timing and delivery is still better than most.
But in Last Vegas, everyone seems to be on a mildly diverting paid vacation, especially Freeman, who can scarcely disguise his contempt for the material. He doesn’t just seem to be phoning it in; he seems to be emailing it in from his trailer.