Ricky Stanicky review: Peter Farrelly can’t recapture his old comedy magic

From the director of Green Book, your Boomer dad’s favorite movie ever, and the star of The Iron Claw, which made art-house cinephiles realize pro-wrestling can’t simply be dismissed as “fake,” comes Ricky Stanicky, a direct-to-streaming product about a faker, played by a wrestler, that’s likely to be absolutely nobody’s favorite. Following his huge Oscar hit, Peter Farrelly got less respect than he may have expected for his dramedy follow-up, The Greatest Beer Run Ever. As such, he’s back in what’s ostensibly his comfort zone, attempting to recapture the charmingly dumb, high-concept comedy vibe that made him and his brother Bobby famous.

The problem with Farrelly as a director now, which may be to his credit as a human being, is that he’s too kind for that sort of broad humor any more. Nobody can be the butt of the joke in any of his recent movies unless they get a redemption later; even his Three Stooges film had to have a tag at the end explaining that the characters weren’t really hitting each other. Ricky Stanicky is an R-rated movie, as evidenced by at least three uses of the F-word and some drug humor, yet it feels like a mom-approved morality tale about how everything would be better if we’d all just play nice.

Perhaps, then, it makes sense that the premise feels lifted from The Family Circus comics. As kids, pals Dean (Zac Efron), Wes (Jermaine Fowler), and JT (Andrew Santino) routinely blamed the results of their mischief on their own version of “Not Me” or “Ida Know,” a never-seen kid named Ricky Stanicky. As adults, they continue to use him as an alibi every time they want to avoid responsibility and cancel plans with their significant others. Eventually, as such guys will, they push the bit too far, pretending to visit Ricky in the hospital so they can attend a show in Atlantic City. While they’re there, JT’s pregnant wife gives birth six weeks early.

As the extended family starts to suspect something’s up, the guys are forced into a corner: prove that Ricky actually exists, or be unveiled as liars. It just so happens that while in Atlantic City, they encountered a barely employed, steroid-addicted, alcoholic actor named Rod (John Cena), and Dean still has his number. Rod’s a mess of a human being, but the movie’s central joke is that he’s such a method actor he’ll genuinely become the perfect best friend if he treats it as a paid part. So long, alcoholism! Ricky doesn’t drink, so Rod can’t either. Hello, expertise! Ricky’s meant to be a global traveler and super-volunteer for Africa, so Rod bones up on all the topics… via Reddit. And a healthy ability to improvise.

Cena’s knack for deadpan humor informs all the movie’s good bits, particularly when it comes to the stage show Rod performs in Atlantic City, which has the wrestler impersonating several rock and pop stars while singing masturbation-themed versions of their biggest hits. One of the benefits of direct-to-streaming comedies is the ability to fast-forward to the good bits, if indeed good bits there be. It’s a shame so many movies induce that mode of watching, but a boon to those who just want to see John Cena do impressions. Fellow grappler Dwayne Johnson once took big risks for laughs in movies like Be Cool; Cena goes for broke as a mess of a human being here, though Farrelly, naturally, has inevitable redemptive moments up his sleeve.

Once the stage is set for Rod to become Ricky, the story is essentially bisected. In the first part, “Ricky” must pass muster at a family bris—a Wedding Crashers type of scenario. In the second, he has to keep passing after accepting a high-paying job offer knowing nothing about the work; think The Secret Of My Success meets Being There, without most of those movies’ good qualities. Towards the end, the script—originally written by David Occhino and Jason Decker, but rewritten many times thereafter by different teams—almost accidentally makes a profound point about how abuse turns people into liars. Pursuing that theme too far would involve having actual onscreen characters be abusers, though, and the forgiving Farrelly isn’t the guy for that.

There’s a version of this movie that could have been very good – Rod is a wonderful comic creation, undoubtedly informed by Cena’s real-life experience with both actors and steroid abusers. Placing him in a generic script, shot flatly, only distinctive by the amount of minor characters with Aussie accents because they’re shooting Australia for Rhode Island, does him no favors. In the wrestling ring, Cena used to wear a shirt which read “Rise Above Hate,” and indeed, he does so here. It would be better if he found a project where he didn’t have to.

Ricky Stanicky premieres March 7 on Prime Video