Directed by Ruben Fleischer. Starring Jesse Eisenberg, Danny McBride, Aziz Ansari, Nick Swardson, Michael Peña, Fred Ward 15A cert, gen release, 83 min
IT SPEAKS well of Jesse Eisenberg that, coming off the back of The Social Network, the actor chose to reteam with his Zombieland chums for another snarky medium-budget action comedy. If only 30 Minutes or Less,a flop in the US, was in any way worthy of Eisenberg's involvement. Other cast members, notably Danny McBride and Aziz Ansari, are equally ill-used.
Where Zombieland found its bemusing if gimmicky worth in the odd coupling of Eisenberg and Woody Harrelson, 30 Minutescoalesces into a sombre lesson about overcrowded narratives and filler dialogue.
On paper it must have seemed like a good idea; give the paying punters two ear-flicking, spit- balling, kidney-thumping, sissy- taunting bromances for the price of one. In practise, the film’s parallel storylines are elbowing each other as often as the guys.
Dwayne (McBride) and Travis (Nick Swardson) are bottom-feeding ne’er-do-wells with a lack-witted scheme to murder Dwayne’s rich dad (Fred Ward) and inherit the capital to open a tanning salon with hookers. To get the $100,000 needed for a hitman, they kidnap pizza delivery boy Nick (Eisenberg), outfit him in an explosives vest and give him 10 hours to rob a bank. Panicked, Nick calls in his BF, Chet (Ansari). Capering and gaping plot holes ensue.
There are a couple of worthy gags. Take care to note the cashier girl who asks Nick and Chet if they want condoms to go with their ski masks and toy guns, and Nick's sudden, urgent interest in Kathryn Bigelow movies. ("What did they do in The Hurt Locker?") These constitute rare, shining one-liners in a screenplay that's mostly happy to trade on breast obsession and random swear words.
The movie’s zany plotting and cynically constructed characters leave little room for attachments. Should we be rooting for the guy who offers to buy teenagers beer, then pockets the proceeds? Or the patricidal potty-mouthed one whose interest in mammaries would shame Benny Hill?
It’s only vulgarity when it doesn’t make you laugh. It’s only moronic if the filmmakers go out of their way to invite comparisons with cold, soggy, fast food in a box. Where’s that titular promise of a refund when we need it?
