TROPIC THUNDER

Ben Stiller's action comedy is a satire of action comedies, we think, writes Donald Clarke

Ben Stiller's action comedy is a satire of action comedies, we think, writes Donald Clarke

WHEN discussing a film that trades so promiscuously in cliches, it is, perhaps, forgivable to begin by using the sort of worn-out phrase that makes careful editors quiver with disgust. The makers of Tropic Thunderwant to - here it comes - have their cake and eat it too.

Actually, it's more complicated than that. Ben Stiller, who directs, stars and co-writes, positively demands that the viewer note and savour the simultaneous having and eating of metaphorical pastries. The tension between what the film says and what the film does helps support one of a dozen (or so) layers of snarky, self-aware humour.

What do I mean? Well, unless you have spent the last few months in the jungles of southeast Asia, beyond the reach of television commercials, internet stings and entertainment journalism, you will know that Tropic Thunderconcerns itself with a film crew's efforts to make a searing, hugely budgeted Vietnam epic.

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Stiller turns up as a fading star of big, dumb action films. Jack Black plays a broad comedian best known for his ability to fart on demand. Steve Coogan gives us a pompous English director. Robert Downey Jr is hilarious as an Australian method actor who undergoes a "pigmentation procedure" in order to play an African-American soldier.

The cast's awful experiences call to mind Apocalypse Now, but the film they are making (also called Tropic Thunder) looks more like a combination of Platoonand Rambo II: war is hell, but, if you discharge enough ordnance, it can make you a stronger human being.

However, in the final act, following a overextended, contrived showdown between the movie stars and real-life heroin growers, Stiller's Tropic Thunderappears to be playing similar games to those in the films being satirised. The gunplay is extreme and preposterous. The characters learn clunky lessons. The music swells with the rising emotions. In short, Tropic Thunderbecomes " Tropic Thunder".

There can be little doubt that Stiller intended this twisty inconsistency. After all, few recent comedies have been quite so relentless in their self-regard. Even before the film has begun, we have been assaulted by a series of superb spoof trailers for films featuring the three main cast members, and it's hard not to ponder the connections between the stars and their characters. (By "their characters" I mean the fake performers they play, not their characters in the film within the film. Do keep up.)

Stiller cannily sidesteps any parallels by making Tugg Speedman, his alter ego, a stranger to comedy, whereas Black's Jeff Portnoy, though as noisy and showy as his creator, occupies grubbier territory to that patrolled by the star of School of Rock.

Robert Downey Jr does, however, bear more than a few similarities to the pretentious, over-adored Kirk Lazarus. This is a terrific performance from the resurgent Bob. The arrogance of the method actor, revealed here through Kirk's minstrel-show grimaces and dubious urban patois, has never seemed so overpoweringly monstrous.

The film-makers may have expected to extend the satire into the wider world by scaring up demonstrations against Downey's supposed blacking up, but it seems that the public can tell the difference between celebration and ridicule.

Or can they? Though African-American lobbyists left their placards at home, there were protests at the film's supposed insensitivity to people with learning disabilities.

The contentious scenes concern an awful film called Simple Jack, in which Tugg gives a grossly offensive impersonation of a mentally disabled man. Though the characters do make liberal use of the word "retard", Stiller is clearly seeking to point up Hollywood's disgraceful record of sentimentalising and patronising the mentally challenged.

The awareness that the protesters stayed away from Forrest Gumpand I Am Sambut felt the need to shout at a film that, despite its irreverence, deplores such cheesy representations, adds yet one more parcel of irony to an already overstuffed basket. You can only laugh.