Central Intelligence review – broad, brainless and impossible to dislike

History books are loaded with the names of entertainers who were wildly popular in their day, even if their fame hasn’t exactly stood the test of time. Assuming all the hard drives from our era don’t get degaussed, future generations ought to be able to judge our era’s performers for themselves, something we can’t do so easily with the giants of vaudeville and music hall. But it’s interesting to wonder which mainstream projects of today will slip into the memory hole of tomorrow.

It’s in the category of ephemeral-yet-enjoyable where you’ll find much of the work of wrestler-turned-thespian Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and diminutive comedian Kevin Hart. These are gifted men working in immensely broad strokes, mugging for the cheap seats, giving those of us willing to let our guard down for two hours a much-needed opportunity to let off some steam.

Central Intelligence, Johnson and Hart’s first pairing – and it’s a natural pairing at that – is an asinine film with a plot so moronic one wonders if it were devised by some sort of computerised algorithm. Yet the result, while instantly forgettable, is a fundamentally pleasurable experience. As with jugglers or tap dancers, recognisable skill can’t be ignored. This buddy action-comedy hits all the usual marks, but does so in something of a populist state of grace. Central Intelligence makes a sly reference to itself as Jason Bourne in jorts, but it’s really more like Xtreme Laurel and Hardy.

Hart’s Calvin Joyner, the antic straight man, peaked in high school. Voted most likely to succeed, he’s now a mid-level accountant and stuck in a rut – no way he’s going to the 20-year reunion. Back in the day, Johnson’s Robert Weirdicht (intentionally mispronounced “weird-dick”) was an obese, awkward kid, ruthlessly bullied by just about everyone other than Joyner. As such, Weirdicht has had an obsession with the affable Joyner, which manifests itself in a Facebook friend request that leads to meeting up for drinks. Having shed hundreds of pounds (and gained it back in muscle) Weirdicht’s Bob Stone (as he calls himself now) is a babe magnet and human killbot, but still maintains his wide-eyed wonder around the once popular kid.

His ass-whoopin’ skills become evident when they bump into bullies, but also when the CIA (led by Amy Ryan, one of many funny supporting players) ends up at Joyner’s front door. Bob Stone is a rogue agent (or something) and must be stopped. He’s got secret nuke codes (I think), has betrayed his former partner and is about to conspire with an international terrorism ring. The plot mechanics are ludicrous and tedious. Exposition dumps are delivered at lightning speed, as director Rawson Marshall Thurber, whose earlier work includes the daffy Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story, is well aware that watching tiny Kevin Hart wail and fret as mountainous Dwayne Johnson bashes secret agents in the head is what everyone has signed up for.

Once Central Intelligence hits its stride (and prior to Bob Stone’s appearance the comedy doesn’t quite snap together) the film is impossible to fully dislike. It’s essentially the Arnold Schwarzenegger/Danny DeVito comedy Twins meets the Peter Falk/Alan Arkin CIA spoof The In-Laws. That’s hardly a bad thing, especially with some solid zingers in Ike Barinholtz, David Stassen and Thurber’s script. (I’ll only spoil one, in which Johnson, complimenting Hart’s appearance, says he looks “like a black Will Smith!”) The anti-bullying message mixes with some weird recurring gags, such as Stone’s childhood obsession with the coming-of-age movie Sixteen Candles, letting Johnson tap his natural sweet side to great effect.

Half of the time Central Intelligence feels somewhat progressive but the rug gets pulled with some gay panic and an anti-Asian joke. The script hedges its bets a bit (“That’s racist!”) but it feels strange in a movie about a character still struggling with being taunted as a teen. More disappointing, though, is the inevitable and dispiriting quagmire of action beats that bog down the final act. Only one shootout has any real panache, playing off the visual disconnect between the gargantuan Johnson and minuscule Hart. Every other fight scene – and there are many – feels phoned in.

The best bit in the movie is the stupidest: sunny, caring Johnson is in a cardigan pretending to be a marriage counsellor as weary Hart sputters with rage. It plays as if one of the writers took a nap on set and woke up shouting: “I’ve got a great idea that doesn’t make sense but let’s do it anyway!” It’s just the type of preposterous scenario that would have worked in a stage revue decades ago.