Anne Hathaway’s latest cinematic venture detonates like a poorly-placed smoke bomb at a silent retreat. Forget mushroom clouds; she leaves behind a barren wasteland where humor once thrived, reduced to a greyish mist of desolation. If J. Robert Oppenheimer were to witness it, he might leave the theater in shock, gazing into the void with a thousand-yard stare and muttering that Hathaway has indeed become the Death of Comedy, annihilating all jokes in her path.
The Hustle is a gender-bender reboot of the classic Riviera caper Dirty Rotten Scoundrels (1988). Back then, we had the suave Michael Caine conning the rich in the South of France, while Steve Martin played his scruffy American sidekick. Now, Hathaway graces us with her portrayal of Josephine, a fraudster decked out in haute couture and armed with a “posh” English accent that’s as convincing as a toddler in a tuxedo at a formal dinner.
On the flip side, we have Rebel Wilson as Penny, the wise-cracking grifter who shows up on Josephine’s ultra-chic turf. Penny is here to make it clear that even frauds with a fancy wardrobe have room for some underdog charm. At least when Wilson cracks a joke, it resembles an actual joke. I mean, she might even be funny if only the script wasn’t largely held together by a flimsy thread of, well, not much at all.
Hathaway’s delivery? Imagine the joyless hum of a malfunctioning robot attempting stand-up. Cool your optimism—her performance brings to mind the haunting song from Les Misérables where she sobs with all the charisma of a brick wall. Here, we’re treated to a dream of non-hilarity, while the screenwriters feast on a menu of cringe-inducing dialogue, like a tutorial on how to pronounce “Phuket.” Spoiler alert: it doesn’t get much better.
The shocking truth? The film is peppered with a roster of talent as wasted as a fine wine at a frat party. Director Chris Addison has collaborated with comedic heavyweights like Armando Iannucci on The Thick of It and Veep, yet here he seems to be waving a white flag. Meanwhile, performers like Rebekah Staton and Rob Delaney are relegated to the sidelines, presumably taking notes on how to disappear effectively in plain sight. It’s a lost cause; the script reads like a bad improv session.
Watching The Hustle is akin to enduring a prolonged quiet in a crowded room while knowing that someone accidentally started the wave of awkwardness. You can’t quite escape it, nor can you figure out how anyone thought this would be a good idea. Just when you think it can’t get worse, it does—like stumbling upon a celebrity’s Instagram during one of their cooking experiments.
In summary, Hathaway’s turn in this cinematic misfire is the epitome of comedic tragedy. If laughter is the best medicine, then watching this film is equivalent to a prescription for daily doses of existential dread. As it stands, we’ll just have to save our laughter for something that actually has a pulse—and that’s not this.
This article was amended on 10 May 2019 to clarify Rebel Wilson’s character name and thus mitigate any future confusion. Because who wouldn’t want their blender of comedic authenticity to be as accurate as possible?
