If the man sitting next to me in the movie theater wrote this review, Mr. Woodcock would be getting a crotch-thrusting four stars. With more chortles, snorts and "Oh Lord's" than I cared to count, my neighbor visibly enjoyed this Billy Bob Thornton, Susan Sarandon and Seann William Scott flick. The problem with taking his opinion seriously is that he probably has little in common with the average Street reader. Like age, for example. For a film whose title evokes images of avian phalluses, there were a lot of senior citizens in attendance. And for some reason, the potty-humor appealed to their decalcifying funny bones.
Director Craig Gillespie tells the heartwarming story of a self-help author (William Scott) who comes back home to find his old, sadistic P.E. teacher (Thornton) courting his mom (Sarandon). All the ingredients of modern comedy are there: several shots of Thornton lifelessly delivering sarcastic insults to scrawny boys, a few minutes of uncreative MILF jokes - Stifler much? - and one
mildly entertaining sequence that illustrates Freud all to predictably. Somehow, the recipe did not translate well.
So instead of enjoying the movie, I simply wondered how Mr. Woodcock attracted a crowd of 60+ 60-year-olds. Is it nostalgia for cruel gym teachers? Or longing for the fashionable track suits that Thornton sports with such Midwestern masculinity? Could it be the free tickets given away outside the theater right before the show? Maybe the ideal patron of this movie just needs to have more life experience than myself. That's okay - I can wait a few decades before seeing this one again.
