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The Fall Guy (2024) and The 2024 Duffies

 


The Fall Guy (2024) caps a trio of recent American productions with Antipodean elements. Like Anyone But You, it’s set in Australia, milks Sydney’s considerable production value, is headlined by two attractive actors, and prompted think pieces about the tenuous state of movie stardom. Like Beverly Hills Cop: Axel F, its direction—there Mark Molloy, here David Leitch—feels rather anonymous, despite The Fall Guy throwing an awful lot at the screen and wearing its designer eccentricities on its sleeve. I don’t doubt Leitch’s talent and ability to stage action, and admire his work on the original John Wick (uncredited) and Atomic Blonde, but of his subsequent films—Deadpool 2, Hobbs & Shaw, Bullet Train—I struggle to remember any of the action beats delivered by one of our purported leading action directors.

The Fall Guy features Ryan Gosling as a retired stuntman who returns to the fold when the movie star he previously doubled (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) goes AWOL. He’s tasked by the producer to locate the missing star, to salvage a gargantuan Sydney-based sci-fi production being helmed by his ex (Emily Blunt). Hijinks ensue.

Like Anyone But You and Beverly Hills Cop: Axel F, The Fall Guy is entertaining enough as dispensable movie candy. But its very dispensability makes it feel all the more wasteful—of its location, of its mammoth budget (compared to those more frugal productions), of its lead talent (who I would absolutely call movie stars, contrary to the discourse), and of its opportunity to tell a stunt-heavy original story (its relationship to the Lee Majors-starring TV program being tenuous at best). At a certain point, its wastefulness creeps into offensiveness—for the celluloid sins above, but also for calling Australian stunt men “rookies” despite the county birthing The Man from Hong Kong and the Mad Max series, hosting The Matrix series, and conjuring no less than Stunt Rock; for feigning that Taylor-Johnson’s douchebag faux-McCoughnehay star could ever be one of the biggest stars in the world, which implies contempt for moviegoers; for suggesting the ghastly-looking intergalactic actioner Blunt’s character is helming could ever be the darling of Comic Con, which is similarly contemptuous of the audience. I’m sure a case could be made for satirical intent and/or me taking it too seriously, but the details don’t gel. And for a love letter to stunt men by a former stunt man working at the apex of his profession on a massive platform, The Fall Guy doesn’t have very much to say. Its Smokey & the Bandit/Jackie Chan-style closing credits showing behind the scenes footage and stunt outtakes feels more genuine than the preceding two hours of polished product. For a more affectionate tribute to the art and craft, I’d recommend Hooper or Australia’s own Deathcheaters. 



It’s been a year since the last Duffies, and looking back, the theme of the year—one that resonates with this film, Anyone But You, and Beverly Hills Cop: Axel F—is the intertwining of American and Australian film culture. Amusingly, this theme was foreshadowed in the first post-Duffies feature reviewed, Reckless Kelly, in which the titular anti-hero becomes the star of a low-rent American genre production. While not particularly sophisticated, its rendering of Hollywood seemed rather more cohesive than The Fall Guy’s. Little did I know that of the 40 features reviewed, 20 of them would carry substantial American imprints, be they American or international films helmed by Australians (Plenty, Roxanne, Mr Baseball, Communion, Operation Dumbo Drop, The Phantom, The Patriot, Salt, The Giver, The Hitman’s Bodyguard films, The Painted Veil, Emily, Beverly Hills Cop: Axel F), shot by Australians (The Three Musketeers, Appaloosa), shot in Australia (Red Planet, Anyone But You, The Fall Guy) or featuring one of our starriest imports (The Invasion). Even in the other 20, more unambiguously local productions, American talent creeps in, in the form of Henry Thomas (Frog Dreaming), Daniel Radcliffe (December Boys), and Thomas Jane & John Cusack (Drive Hard), with the ever-present specter of local talent before and behind the scenes that has gone on to be cannibalized by Hollywood.

Despite this considerable imperial reach, the Australian talent largely ruled the Duffies this year.

Best Film: No contest—Reckless Kelly. Truly an original. Also greatly admire the comedic soufflé of Roxanne and, to my great surprise, the gnarlier These Final Hours.

Best Director: Ditto—Yahoo Serious’ (Reckless Kelly) direction is offbeat and singular. But Zak Hilditch’s work on These Final Hours is effective and underrated, and watching Plenty, Roxanne, and Mr Baseball within a twelve-month span rekindled my appreciation for Fred Schepisi’s nonchalant touch. And while I don’t think the film is successful overall, I can’t dispute Simon Wincer’s ambitious work wrangling The Lighthorsemen.

Best Actor: Tempted as I am to reward Yahoo Serious thrice, I need to shout out Nathan Phillips’ (These Final Hours) career-best performance, beating Steve Martin (Roxanne) by a nose and dancing away with Christopher Walken’s (Communion) trophy.

Best Actress: Highly competitive category with terrific turns by Miranda Otto (Love Serenade) and Emily Barclay (Suburban Mayhem)—neither done justice in my brief Christmas season reviews of those films—along with Caitlin Stasey (Tomorrow When the War Began), Teresa Palmer (Ride Like a Girl), and someone called Meryl Streep (Plenty). But as per my recent review, Emma Mackey (Emily) is a real powerhouse as the titular Bronte sister.

Best Supporting Actor: Double-trouble Sam Neill (Ride Like a Girl, Plenty). Sentimental BS career win? Maybe. Co-stars Charles Dance (Plenty) and Stevie Payne (Ride Like a Girl) are credible runners-up, and Garry McDonald (Molly) delivers good creep.

Best Supporting Actress: Does Molly (of Molly fame) count? If not, Kathryn Beck (These Final Hours) is a single-scene heavy-hitter bringing the tipping point, and said films also yielded strong child actress turns from Claudia Karvan (Molly) and Angourie Rice (These Final Hours).

Til next year,

Ben


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