Great comedies are in short supply these days, but “72 Hours” offers a reminder that a crime subplot can quickly ruin even a potentially average one. Directed by Tim Story (“Barbershop,” “Ride Along”) and written by Jon Hurwitz and Hayden Schlossberg (the “Harold & Kumar” trilogy, “American Reunion”), this latter-day “Hangover” retread did not need to do anything but, you know, deliver laughs in order to tickle audiences’ funny bones. But even with a cast led by Kevin Hart and stacked with “Saturday Night Live” alums Marcello Hernández, Ben Marshall and Kam Patterson, this summertime confection from Netflix frantically — and disappointingly — throws everything at the wall in the hopes that something will stick.
Hart plays Joe, a 40-year-old advertising executive who mistakenly gets added to a group text for the Miami bachelor party of Mason (Mason Gooding), which is being thrown by his twentysomething friends Nick (Hernández), Hunter (Marshall) and Freshman (Patterson). When his latest campaign for a vodka brand gets dismissed as “cringe” by a colleague, threatening an upcoming promotion, Joe persuades Mason and his pals to invite him to join them, in the hopes of acquiring more intimate knowledge of a younger generation of consumers.
The prospect of attending a raucous three-day party on South Beach comes as disappointing news to Joe’s girlfriend Jennifer (Teyana Taylor), who’s waiting for her own proposal. But even after renting a swagged-out Airbnb to ingratiate themselves with the group, Mason and especially Nick only reluctantly agree to let Joe join in on their activities. He fails early to win their confidence, but after they visit a yacht party, Joe is forced to consume cocaine, unleashing a Tony Montana-like alter ego whose flamboyant, destructive behavior runs them afoul of a mysterious drug lord convinced Joe is encroaching on his turf.
Whether as a true generational touchstone or just a laugh-inducing diversion every few years, remaking “The Hangover” in some capacity every few years is not just a welcome experience for a certain segment of the moviegoing audience, but probably a good business practice for studios. The problem with this idea, as “72 Hours” demonstrates, is that filmmakers feel the need to top their predecessors, or even themselves, with each attempt. As a consequence, it seems no longer possible tell the story of five guys having a couple of wild nights without introducing an escalating, even ridiculous series of events. (“The Hangover,” of course, also includes a crime subplot, but notwithstanding its status as the kickstarter of this subgenre, Todd Phillips at least knew to mine it for laughs instead of serious thrills.)
The premise here is actually pretty solid: what happens when a guy old enough to know better decides to participate in some young adult hijinks? Of course, Joe insists at one point that “40 is the new 20,” and culturally speaking that seems true these days, so maybe immaturity knows no age limit. Not to mention the fact that “Old School” tackled this concept successfully almost 25 years ago. But other than a handful of “unc” jokes and an unfortunate pre-gaming incident involving Pepto-Bismol, the movie elicits surprisingly little humor from the generational divide between Hart — who might be more convincing at 47, his actual age — and his younger counterparts. (That the bachelor and his friends are all around 30 further flattens the differences between them and Joe.) Instead, it’s his wallet that proves most valuable, both to the characters and the screenwriters, lubricating luxury and access when the scrappy twentysomethings can’t afford something.
In the meantime, the writers introduce Joe’s attempt to unlock the secret lives of young adults for his advertising campaign (evoking ulterior-motive movies like “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days” and “27 Dresses”), a competing bachelorette party whose members are not what they seem (think Ilana Glazer in “The Night Before”), and of course, the mysterious drug lord who inexplicably rents out his mansion to anyone with a credit card, but carelessly fails to lock up his valuables. The script aims to mirror some character dynamics from the peerless “Bridesmaids” — in particular, the relationship between soon-to-be-married Mason and his stuck-in-the-past best friend Nick. But the film can’t decide whether it wants to actually give its cast substantive material to explore or assault them with vomit, cocaine and whale sperm (!) as a way to ensure the audience’s involvement.
Working under the watchful eye of his “Ride Along” director, Hart continues to maintain a likeable screen presence as the well-meaning but out-of-his-depth Joe, but doesn’t do himself (or his wildly inconsistent filmography) any favors with this project. Much of Hart’s appeal lies in his willingness to be the butt of the joke, and there are many here at his expense — thankfully not as many as usual targeting his diminutive stature. But what’s missing from his performance (perhaps beginning with the writing) is the palpable life experience that lends him an advantage when his young friends run into trouble. Clearly, Joe made enough bad decisions in his earlier days to create — and survive — “Ricardo Montana” as an alter ego, but as the film progresses, he seems less like an elder statesman than an old guy trying to live vicariously through his counterparts.
This is Hernández’ second movie role, and he seems poised to break out in the same way he did on “Saturday Night Live,” but even though he’s funny, there’s not enough of a character here for him to truly distinguish himself. Patterson, on the other hand, pops in a way he has seldom done on TV, and delivers a memorable performance as the group’s resident idiot. Meanwhile, recent Oscar nominee Taylor beams in from another movie with a grounded performance that this one doesn’t deserve. Additional supporting turns from other television stalwarts (“Better Call Saul” alum Michael Mando, “Severance” breakout Zach Cherry, “Veep” scene-stealer Kevin Dunn) hint at a better, less wacky odyssey left by the wayside.
Story’s body of work is not unlike Hart’s, in that every pretty good movie he’s made is significantly outnumbered by bad ones. His latest falls somewhere in the middle of that spectrum: It isn’t totally awful, but it strains to communicate how much fun the audience should be having instead of, well, just being fun. The irony of chasing “The Hangover” is that even Phillips seemed nonplussed by its success, or perhaps even resentful; perhaps that’s why he made a shameless copy with the second film and an antagonistic drama for the third. But not unlike a hangover itself, “72 Hours” is a movie that reminds you of the specter of the past; the problem is that it never delivers enough good times to make the painful aftermath worthwhile.
