as its hero, a deluded, stupid and fairly repellent character, whom the
filmmakers seem to consider a regular fellow. The idea is that we should watch
the selfish, irresponsible antics of a moron with a sense of personal
recognition.
Here’s a scary thought: There was a time when Hollywood’s idea of homespun,
nondenominational spirituality gave us Jimmy Stewart in Frank Capra’s “It’s a
Wonderful Life.” In two generations, we’ve gone from that to “Bruce Almighty,”
with Jim Carrey playing a guy who’s no more altruistic than the grasping old
villain Lionel Barrymore played in the Capra film. Is this merely
happenstance? Or are we getting the heroes we deserve?
“Bruce Almighty” is a comedy with one of those what-if thoughts at its
foundation. In this case, what if Jim Carrey were God. From there, everything
else in the movie is just so much architecture. Carrey, as Bruce, is given a
dead-end job, a lovely girlfriend he doesn’t deserve (Jennifer Aniston) and an
incontinent dog he does deserve. He’s a TV news reporter for a Buffalo station,
doing novelty stories, but he dreams of becoming an anchorman. When he
doesn’t get the job, he lashes out at God — so strenuously that God (Morgan
Freeman) grants him godlike powers.
That Bruce should be angry at God is hard to understand. It’s not as though
he’s presented as a particularly religious person. Why would he think the
creator of the universe should have a hand in whether he makes anchor?
Moreover, why would he think he deserves to be an anchor at all when, as the
movie points out, he has never done a live stand-up? His angry rant seems
either a manifestation of mental illness or profound immaturity, and yet it’s
not intended as either. We’re supposed to sympathize.
Still, “Bruce Almighty” is at its best in the early scenes. Bruce’s hostile
on-air crackup, while doing a report from Niagara Falls, showcases Carrey at
his best — smiling, loquacious, enraged. And once he becomes endowed with
omnipotent powers, the movie invites us to enjoy them vicariously. Traffic
jams part for him like the Red Sea, and his girlfriend’s breasts get bigger
overnight. Best of all, he is able to arrange for natural disasters to take
place, when he just happens to be on the scene with a camera crew.
The comic highlight of “Bruce Almighty,” however, doesn’t belong to Carrey
but to Steve Carell, as the obnoxious reporter who gets the anchor job Bruce
wanted. Bruce uses his powers to make the anchorman fall apart on live
television, giving him a high-pitched voice and flatulence and turning his
copy, as it rolls through the TelePrompTer, into gibberish. Carell is very
funny, holding to a locked-down anchorman persona in the midst of a cascade of
humiliations.
By contrast, Carrey’s shtick is beginning to seem tired. When the bits are
good, as they sometimes are in “Bruce Almighty,” he rises to it, but the days
of his being able to get laughs out of flashing his lower teeth, elongating
his neck and making funny voices are over. The Carrey personality becomes
especially jarring in a romantic context. To look back and forth, from Aniston
acting sweet to Carrey acting weird, is to wonder what she’s doing with this
creep.
Long before the middle of the movie, the Carrey-as-Lord premise loses its
novelty and begins to drag. At the same time, we begin to wonder why Bruce is
so thoroughly selfish that he doesn’t once use his divinity to do something
for someone else. That’s the funny thing about these what-if ideas. Sometimes
they lead the story in directions the filmmakers are not prepared to go.
Director Tom Shadyac is determined to keep it light, but the subject itself
pushes the movie into heavy areas. Bruce doesn’t heal the sick and doesn’t
give to the poor. He tries to ignore the prayers that are bombarding his
consciousness. The movie presents this without judgment, but it affects the
way we see him and, by extension, our enjoyment of “Bruce Almighty.” It’s
pretty clear Bruce would have no business as a minor saint, much less as the
top man.
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This film contains sexual situations and minor violence.
E-mail Mick LaSalle at mlasalle@sfchronicle.com.