So, it's called Delivery Man and it stars Vince Vaughn. What do you think it's about? That's right. It's got something to do with giving birth. But the title is even cleverer than that. Vaughn actually plays a guy who delivers meat for a living. It works on so many levels.
To be fair, the film is a bit better than that suggests. Not for the first time, Vaughn stars as a wastrel with a great deal of growing up to do.
What's that you say? No doubt he will be forced to drink Owen Wilson under the table a few times before achieving the required maturity. Not so much. Ken Scott's translation of his own French-Canadian picture Starbuck is actually a rather sweet, sentimental piece of work.
Vaughn plays the most useless member of a Polish-American family in the butchery trade. In the opening scene, harried by this and worried by that, he somehow loses the strips for the clan’s favourite basketball team. His bachelor flat is decorated with album sleeves. He owes some large amount of money to the mob. You know how these things go.
Then he learns stunning news. Some years previously, he gave generously to a sperm bank and remotely sired 533 children. Now a significant portion of them are taking legal measures to rescind the confidentiality agreement.
For no real good reason, Vince decides to hunt them down anonymously and put each of their lives in order. This fellow needs a bit more confidence. This chap, a professional ball player, needs no help at all. In one particularly glutinous sequence, Vaughn overcomes his discomfort and bonds with a severely disabled young man.
Much of the film is exhaustingly drippy. But the supporting players exhibit enough gritty character to buoy the film up. Chris Pratt is terrific as the hero's best friend, exhausted by fatherhood. Cobie Smulders is charming as his (what else?) long-suffering girlfriend. And there are surprising appearances from admired Irish actors Jack Reynor, as one of Vince's many sons, and Simon Delaney as an exasperated brother.
We have had worse filler in January.
