. . . So You Don't Have To: "Bachelorette"

BACHELORETTE (B-minus)

Thank goodness for Kirsten Dunst; I could watch just about anything with Kirsten Dunst. In the raunchy female answer song to "The Hangover" etal., Dunst, like her character, takes a complete clusterfuck and salvages something tolerable out of it.

Dunst is Regan, the alpha female among three high school pals who gather in New York to stand up at the wedding of the fat girl they used to call Pigface behind her back, but who now is the first to get married, and to a handsome guy (with a job), to boot. Each is a two-dimensional character -- one has a history of eating disorders, one is a substance-abusing slut, and the other is a dimwit with a great rack. While mocking poor Becky behind her back, they rip her wedding dress and proceed to spend the night before the wedding soiling it in creative ways while they attempt to get it into a pair of safe hands that can repair it.

The script, like the gals, is a hot mess. Writer/director Leslye Headland (adapting her play) patches it all together with idiot-plot devices, observes the space-time continuum when she feels like it, and throws out pathetic '80s and '90s pop culture references that are a 40-something's idea of insider hip. (A character does a minor imitation of Tom Hanks on "SNL" (!) and then has to tell us that he just did an imitation of Tom Hanks on "SNL.") For some reason, Headland flaunts her knowledge of Harry Truman. Believe it or not, she serves up a stereotypical uber-efficient Asian assistant. And everyone goes to one of those strip clubs where all the women keep their tops on and chat cheekily with the customers. But as bawdy as these gals get, it seems that their hearts just aren't in it. Frankly, they can't hold Will Ferrell's jock (he signed on here as a producer with pal Adam McKay).

"Bachelorette" does have its moments. Dunst is at her Type-A best, especially down the stretch. Isla Fisher, as the dumb one, is consistently funny and occasionally hilarious (like when she insists that the death of Lady Di, which they all bonded over, happened four years ago).

Lizzy Caplan as Gena still has big beautiful eyes for her teenage boyfriend played by the overexposed Adam Scott (too old for this part; he turns 40 next month and if he combs his hair any farther forward he'll have to eat all his meals through a straw). The couple had a traumatic event that they haven't sorted out 15 or so years later. Caplan and Scott have no chemistry, and his attempts to win her back are uninspired and devoid of true humor. And Caplan plays the foul-mouthed hard-ass here, kicking it off with a painfully unfunny, interminable riff on fellatio directed improbably at her seat-mate on an airplane (as she chugs minis). In fact, I lost count of how many times Caplan's character either threatened or promised to blow someone. Hardy-har.

That's really the problem here. It's a lot of talk and little action. We've seen this type of movie ad nauseam (even the female version: "Bridesmaids"), and just about every working part of this film has been done funnier and raunchier before.