Directed and co-written by the novelist John Butler, The Stag is an eager to please Irish spin on the type of bromantic comedy epitomised by Judd Apatow’s sprawling crew of stoned manchildren. It’s got excellent production values and a talented home grown cast but is weighed down by weak characterisation and a streak of gloopy sentimentality a mile wide.
Hugh O’Connor plays Fionnan, a placid stage designer who’s about to be married but is more interested in in planning the big day than having one last wild night before he settles down with fiancée Ruth (Amy Huberman). Concerned at her husband to be’s unhealthy obsession with wedding-themed dioramas, she enlists best mate Davan (Andrew Scott) to give him one last weekend to remember. Along with brother Little Kevin (Michael Legge), his partner Big Kevin (Andrew Bennett) and put upon web designer Simon (Brian Gleeson) the reluctant stag and his best man set off for what they hope is a relaxing weekend hike in Connemara. However, despite their best efforts to evade him, they’re joined on the trip by the bride’s brother, a notorious loose cannon known only as “The Machine.”
As embodied by Peter McDonald (who co-wrote the script), The Machine is not a subtle creation. He’s a boorish, boozy, and thoroughly regressive loudmouth, a direct descendant from the line of jockish id-monsters that includes Sean William Scott’s Stifler and a number of Will Ferrell’s shoutier roles. With his quasi-military slang, habit of mangling people’s names and unenlightened views on homosexuality, The Machine is instantly at odds with the prematurely middle-aged stag party and tensions quickly begin to rise among the outwardly mild-mannered crew.
Best man Davan is, we discover early on, secretly in love with the bride to be after a brief relationship sometime in the past. This memorable fling has left the unfortunate chap secretly yearning for his best friend’s girl for years, an affliction which has left him with a simmering resentment towards Fionnan and eyes that seem to be permanently brimming over with tears. His big moment comes in a needlessly extended campfire singalong where he essays an acapella rendition of “On Raglan Road” so spectacularly maudlin you’d need a heart of stone not to laugh at it. Scott is a fine actor, but he’s saddled here with a character that’s so drippy even Patrick Kavannagh might have told him to crack a smile occasionally. The rest of the unremarkable party are basically insult fodder for The Machine (the two Kevins), one joke creations (the wimpy groom), or burdened with a hastily sketched backstory to give the film some veneer of topicality (Simon has money troubles).
The Stag leaves no stone unturned in its quest for laughs. There’s nudity, drug-use (although with this group of guys, even their drug freakouts are boring) and copious gay jokes but the set-pieces feel like warmed up leftovers from other, better films and McDonald’s constant clowning quickly becomes irritating. By the time we’ve discovered that The Machine might not be such a bad guy after all, endured a stirring self-congratulatory monologue on the inherent brilliance of being Irish, and suffered through yet another sing-along, I’d long since tired of the film’s well-meaning but ultimately rather limp variation on a formula. The Stag is not a wholly dislikeable film but its desire to please all comers leaves it stuck in a sort of cinematic no man’s land, too safe to work as an outrageous comedy and too shallow and sentimental to satisfy dramatically.
Fuzzy Lamentations 