The Pickup Review – ‘Better off left unpicked’

There’s been much talk lately of the decline of the movie comedy. But action-comedies, the movie comedy’s punchier, shootier, more explodey cousin, are all the rage — at least for streaming services looking for undemanding, easy-to-watch, pop-it-on-in-the-background fare. In the last year alone, we’ve had Deep Cover, Heads Of State, Love Hurts, Novocaine, Back In Action, Guns Up — and now The Pickup, starring Eddie Murphy.

Murphy would seem like canny casting: he is largely responsible for the popularity of action-comedies in their modern form, having starred in some of the greatest incarnations of the subgenre in the 1980s, from 48 Hrs. to Beverly Hills Cop. But in The Pickup, he is unwisely and disappointingly placed in the role of the straight man, his natural comedic gifts largely muzzled, while fellow former SNL cast-member Pete Davidson takes the role of his comedic foil. They play mismatched security guards thrown together for a job, but while Travis (Davidson) is just thrilled to get laid, Russell (Murphy) is desperate to finish his shift on time so he can get back to his wife Natalie (Eva Longoria) for their anniversary dinner.

The cast — including Keke Palmer as unlikely love interest/master criminal Zoe — are just about charismatic enough to keep things watchable, even if, with the best will in the world, Davidson’s versatility and charm do not scrape anywhere near the heights of Murphy’s heyday. But the script gives them so little to work with. It’s nearly all lame and juvenile material, comprised primarily of cheap sex jokes (“Go ahead, Russ — go get your dick sucked,” offers Travis at the film’s ostensible emotional climax) or tired observations about racial differences (“You’re Black, so you look 40, but you could be up to 90”).

Director Tim Story, a veteran of the mismatched-buddy action-comedy by now with the Ride Along movies, at least brings a certain level of directorial flair to the action, with some impressively shot practical stunts, especially during a high-speed freeway chase between an armoured van, a fleet of acrobatic baddies, and some slow-motion exploding dye-packs. But beyond the whizz-bang fun, it’s hard to truly care with character development so back-of-an-envelope deep: Russell’s entire personality is that he loves his wife, while Travis’ is that he’s horny.

That leaves Palmer, as the nominal femme fatale, to practically steal the film from under the two leads’ noses. She brings movie-star quality, even when the plot descends into eyebrow-furrowing contrivances. Come the climactic Atlantic City heist, you are far more likely to find yourself oddly bored than anything else. Which is fine if you do indeed just have this film on in the background. But, as Murphy’s presence here reminds us (there is a pointed needle drop of The Pointer Sisters’ ‘Neutron Dance’, which feels more saddening than gladdening), action-comedies used to be so much more than that.