Half the success of the film can be attributed to the sheer novelty and "slap your forehead" obviousness of the comic gold to be mined from the preposterous, ego-driven universe of local newscasters, all the more so in the 1970s when political correctness hadn't yet reared its appearance-challenged head. The filmmakers take great delight in the minutiae of their world, from the ridiculous but somehow snazzy suits, to the simple, pre-CG weather map and the various types of "manly" colognes that might be used by an on-the-prowl reporter (one of which is described as smelling like "Bigfoot's dick"). They even manage to accurately spoof the subtle distinctions between the various types of newscasters, from cock-of-the-walk Burgundy to his slightly seedier second-place competitors, down to the tweedy, bushy-haired, pipe-smoking pretentiousness of a PBS reporter played in a brilliant cameo by a celebrity to be named later. The largest part of Anchorman's charm, though, is its cast, led by Will Ferrell. Ferrell has what I call "the crazy eyes," meaning that no matter what the part, he's absolutely there, invested in the character completely, right up to his eyeballs; he literally looks crazy. In a sense, he's the anti-Bill Murray – while Murray always seems to be expressing some aspect of his world-weary self, Ferrell appears to have no specific persona of his own, and so he is whatever he's playing. He single-handedly saved many years' worth of "SNL" from being totally asinine, and in Anchorman, it's the strength and conviction of his performance that allows the film to hold together instead of spinning off into utter malarkey. Farrell invests the clueless Burgundy with an innocent sweetness that makes him comically sympathetic. His mid-film emotional breakdown plays riotously funny and bizarrely sad; for all his egocentrism, you actually feel bad that his once-perfect world is rapidly collapsing around him. The rest of the cast is almost equally good, especially the core news team consisting of a man-on-the-street reporter (Paul Rudd), a weatherman (Steve Carell) and a sportscaster (David Koechner). Rudd, whom I had the displeasure of seeing in an excruciating London production of "Long Day's Journey Into Night" (which also starred Jessica Lange, the most overrated, underwhelming actress in the history of humanity), has lately grown on me, and after his short run on "Friends," I'm starting to understand his blandly handsome everyman appeal, and it's clear from this performance that he's got some solid comedy chops. Koechner, whom I'd never seen before, holds his own against the more familiar faces, and has a few laugh-out-loud funny moments, most of them related to his feelings towards Burgundy. But cap's off to Carell, whom I first noticed on "The Daily Show" (his absence may prove the show's eventual downfall). Carell's borderline-retarded weatherman, Brick Tamland, steals practically every scene he's in. He too is played as an innocent, even when, in an unbelievably over-the-top newscaster rumble, his innocence amounts to inadvertent evil. What's so great is how Brick gets by on his ability to mirror his friends, even though he often has no idea what they – or he – are talking about. If they laugh, he takes the cue and laughs, and almost instantaneously stops when they all stop … but with just enough of a delay that it's obvious he's not laughing because he thinks something's funny, only mimicking the others like an eager monkey. Watch him when he's not the focus of the scene, and you'll consistently find yourself laughing at his strange but somehow logical reactions. If there's a weak link in the cast, it's Christina Applegate as ball-busting female reporter Veronica Corningstone. She's not bad, in fact she's quite good, but she's not on par with her costars, or the material. It makes me realize that there are few female actresses who aren't ass-ugly who can do comedy, all the more sad because almost all comedies rely on the female lead to provide some romantic/sexual intrigue, and most of these roles end up as window dressing so the latest JC Penney bra model gets her crack at fame. But I'm hard pressed to think of another actress in Applegate's age range with B+ or better looks who could have pulled it off. The only one that comes to mind is Missi Pyle (who actually appears briefly in Anchorman about two minutes before the end), but barely anyone knows who she is, she's probably only considered "best friend cute," and certainly box office receipts are more reliably pumped up by the presence of Kelly Bundy. A bunch of familiar faces show up in a series of great-to-mediocre cameos, most questionably Ben "look at me!" Stiller. The guy's gotta take a break, or audiences will start charging him to see his movies. "Okay, Ben, we'll watch your little movie, but this time we want free popcorn and a car wash." And do we really need another creepy Latino bartender played by Wes Studi? On the whole, however, Anchorman is consistently amusing. Costumes, sets, even the background music oozes the 70s of out-of-shape swingers in ill-fitting leisure suits, which should be terribly lame given the sheer volume of lame-ass comedy that simply points at the 70s in expectation of an easy laugh (see also Soul Plane). But Anchorman is such a unique and specific rendition, and the film is so wall-to-wall packed with details, it'd probably take a sociologist/historian to catch all the references. And they're not all obvious "Marcia got hit in the face with a football"-style references, either, but mostly far more subtle and genuine. What I found most exciting about the film was its layered comedic approach. Though on the surface Anchorman can be seen as "just another stupid comedy," it's fully self-aware without being too preening or ironic about it. It makes fun of 70s newscasters while mocking itself in the process, so you can laugh at the jokes, or laugh equally hard at the pure playful joy that clearly went into constructing the jokes, and to capturing them on film. The film is strongly observational about the pettiness of local news, which may be shooting fish in a barrel, but these are some mighty comical fish. I found it particularly funny that the newscasters never mention a single national event (or, thankfully, any number of cheesy 70s cultural totems), but the impending birth of a Panda at the zoo escalates into a swirling media frenzy on the level of the arrival of Drs. Cornelius and Zira. As a result, I'd argue that, despite the many reviews that I'm sure will label Anchorman "insipid and dumb," it's actually very clever and canny, like a smart guy playing retarded … like, well, Steve Carell as Brick Tamland. Damn good fun. It has a few clunky, exasperating moments (the "jazz flute" scene could have been about 20 minutes shorter), but those pass quickly enough, and the laughs are strong and consistent. Though it might not wear well in the long run, in a society where The Blues Brothers is considered a classic, I will gladly bask in the lingering glow of an entertaining movie that's made by a group of people who seem to truly care about the quality of comedy they're offering. Now, back to my coffee served in the free Ron Burgundy mug that DreamWorks gave me.
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