‘Mortdecai’ aims for caper, but falls flat

Any film credited with its own “mustache wrangler” really should have been much more fun than Johnny Depp’s latest misfiring action-comedy. Mostly set in contemporary England but aiming for the zingy retro feel of a vintage Peter Sellers feature from the Swinging Sixties, “Mortdecai” is an anachronistic mess that never succeeds in re-creating the breezy tone or snappy rhythm of the classic caper movies that it aims to mimic. Despite a heavyweight cast and the solid directing skills of A-list screenwriter David Koepp (“Jurassic Park,” “Panic Room,” “Spider-Man”), this charmless farce ends up as another black mark on Depp’s recent track record of patchy pet projects.

“Mortdecai” is based on the first in a series of irreverent comic novels by Kyril Bonfiglioli. Published in the 1970s, the books chronicle the amoral antics of aristocratic British art dealer Lord Charlie Mortdecai (Depp), who is aided on his drink-sodden adventures by his thuggish but resourceful and sexually irresistible manservant Jock Strapp (Paul Bettany).

Depp plays Mortdecai as a human Looney Tunes character, a snobbish playboy narcissist so enamored of his comically absurd new moustache that he risks driving his disapproving wife Johanna (Gwyneth Paltrow) to divorce. Teetering on the brink of bankruptcy in his grand, stately home, the disreputable gap-toothed rogue spots a chance to escape financial ruin when a rare Goya canvas goes missing after a lethal robbery. Grudgingly recruited for his art-world expertise by suave MI5 agent and longtime love rival Alistair Martland (Ewan McGregor), Mortdecai jets off on a mission to find the stolen painting and exploit the priceless secret rumored to be hidden on its reverse side.

“Mortdecai” is stuffed with star names and classic farce ingredients, but its fatal flaw is an almost surreal lack of jokes. The main players spend almost every scene mugging desperately for the camera, milking every possible lowbrow sexual innuendo and clumsy slapstick mishap in novice screenwriter Eric Aronson’s thin script. Ironically, these overcooked performances are often more hindrance than help when the occasional funny line arises.

The final set piece, which takes place at an upmarket London art auction house, brings all the characters and subplots together in an orgy of cartoonish violence and triple-cross deceptions that quickly becomes tiresome. For all its minor offenses against taste and decency, the sole unforgivable sin that “Mortdecai” commits is one that would leave its rakish anti-hero aghast. Because the film that bears his name is ultimately a frightful, crashing bore.