Here’s a no-brainer for you: Take Kevin Hart and Will Ferrell, two of America’s funniest and most popular comedians, find an excuse to put them in a bunch of scenes together, and let them go. Tickets will be sold by the millions, people will laugh, checks will be ginormous, and a good time will be had by all. Get Hard should have been great, but the material is so off-base and dated it’s a wonder Hart and Ferrell, two of the most in-demand actors in the industry, didn’t take one look at the script and toss it straight into the trash.

Everything you’ve heard about Get Hard—that it’s unforgivably racist and homophobic—is pretty much true, though I found it much more unfunny than offensive. Race and homophobia are sensitive subjects that have been mined for comedy for decades, and there’s nothing wrong with that. The truth is, as a country we’re still tragically insecure and anxious about gay people and minorities, and humor is a great way to address those issues and acknowledge the absurdity of it all so that we might further the conversation and amend our ignorances. That sort of comedy takes a deft hand, though, so as not to seriously offend anyone, and in this sense, Get Hard fumbles hard, landing flat on its face.

Ferrell plays James King, a rich, gifted hedge-fund manager whose affluent upbringing has molded him into a walking pile of prejudice and entitlement, oblivious to the world outside his bubble of mansions, fast cars, and tailored suits. He’s an expert at white things, and a bumbling idiot when it comes to poor minority things. When he’s arrested for fraud and embezzlement, he hires his black car-washer, Darnell (Hart) to get him prison-ready in thirty days. In reality, Darnell’s a pansy family man who’s never been to and doesn’t know the first thing about jail, but the idea of a law-abiding black man doesn’t exist in King’s bubble. The rest of the movie plays out like a protracted training montage, with an inconsequential storyline about James trying to clear his name thrown in because…plot.

Director Etan Cohen, Jay Martel, and Ian Roberts wrote the script. Yes, they’re all white dudes, but surely they can’t be as insensitive and clueless as James, a character of their own creation, right? Right?! To answer this question, let’s examine an atrocious scene about halfway through the movie. James is in a bathroom stall of a gay establishment getting ready to perform fellatio on an impatient stranger (comedian Matt Walsh) as one of Darnell’s prison survival exercises. James looks frightened, and we see glimpses of the stranger’s dick. It’s clearly meant to be shocking that we’re seeing Ferrell’s face inches away from a dick, but the only thing shocking is how clumsy and unfunny it is, and the only dicks of consequence are the dicks who wrote this damn thing. Are we not past the point of finding gay sex yucky? It’s a question of taste, really. If you find rape jokes funny, boy, are you in for a treat with this movie; asses get stuffed and unstuffed aplenty. If that’s not funny to you, um…don’t see this movie. Can’t make it any clearer.

The saddest thing is, Hart and Ferrell are better than this. Ferrell is a natural when it comes to playing dimwitted, confused white guys, and Hart’s manic, firework energy is a perfect complement. These guys are really, really funny, and the fact that the writers felt they needed to resort to dick shots, rape humor, and stale race jokes to make audiences laugh is senseless and desperate. Hart and Ferrell have been making millions and millions of people laugh for years and years. They don’t need help! Hell, even the height disparity between them is funny! There are a few scenes in which they get to flex their comedic muscle, like a showcase in which Hart plays three types of thug in a prison yard exercise with Ferrell reacting like a scared little boy. These improvised moments work because the stars feel like they’re playing off of each other freely, unimpeded by the poorly crafted script.

Alison Brie plays James’ greedy fiancé, and Craig T. Nelson plays her father, who also happens to be James’ boss. They show up whenever the plot needs to move forward, and are otherwise inconsequential. T.I. surprisingly emerges as the film’s breakout performer, playing Darnell’s thuggish cousin. Despite the role being staggeringly stereotypical, the rapper somehow manages to make his character the most believable and authentic in the entire movie.

It’s hard to be truly insulted by a comedy when it’s this moronic and misguided. I can understand if people find Get Hard offensive, but pitiful seems a more apt word to me. There are some chuckles to be had here, because with such gifted and reliable talent that’s pretty much a given. But the vehicle that houses Hart and Ferrell is so scummy and poorly crafted it isn’t worth anyone’s time.

On New Year’s Day 2009, Oscar Grant, a black 22-year-old Bay Area resident was pulled off a BART train and taken into custody by a police officer. Unarmed and defenseless, he was shot in the back and killed on the Fruitvale BART station train platform in front of dozens of passengers. The incident was captured on a cell phone camera and went viral, making national news. The shocking footage opens director Ryan Coogler‘s debut feature, Fruitvale Station, a dramatization of Oscar Grant’s last day on earth which aims to humanize the shamefully under-discussed news story by spotlighting quiet, ostensibly meaningless moments in his final hours. This intimate, personal perspective on Oscar’s story illuminates the magnitude and cultural significance of his death in a way no news story ever could.

The decision to open the film with the raw footage is brilliant, providing weighty context for every scene that follows. After the clip, we loop back from New Year’s Day to New Year’s Eve and the beginning of Oscar’s (Michael B. Jordan) day. He’s bickering with his girlfriend, Sophina (Melonie Diaz) in their bedroom, trying to convince her that a recent affair was a one-time-only mistake. Diaz and Jordan have real chemistry, and their speech dynamic feels natural. When their daughter Tatiana (Ariana Neal) knocks on the door, and Oscar hurries to hide a zip of weed before letting her in. He clearly ain’t no saint, but who is?

Coogler’s unobtrusive camera follows Oscar throughout his day as we’re introduced to the pile of mistakes he’s accumulated. He’s lost his job at the grocery store, he’s an ex-convict (which we discover in an unforgettable flashback scene), and he’s got an explosive temper, but he clearly loves his family and is trying hard to shake his demons for their sake. His life is a mess, but he’s determined to clean it up.

Jordan respects the role and convinces us that he was born to do it. He embraces the ugliness of his mean streak while convincing us that he’s a caring family man deep down, a challenge that would be easily flubbed by most young actors. He’s got the chops to be truly great. Octavia Spencer is characteristically captivating as Oscar’s mother, Wanda Grant, a soft-spoken, caring matriarch with an exhausted patience for his bullshit (she’ll never forget how Oscar going to jail affected her granddaughter.) Still, she loves her son, so when he tells her that he and Sophina are going to San Francisco to watch the fireworks she thoughtfully suggests they take BART instead of driving.

Coogler’s passion for his subjects is felt throughout the film, and he shows that he’s a director of taste and discipline. The key to the film’s success is making sure we get to know Oscar as a person, and he keeps his priorities straight. There are occasional moments of high drama that jar the tone of realism (Tatiana clairvoyantly asking her dad not to get on the BART train is totally unnecessary), and the post-Fruitvale scenes feel a little bloated, but for the most part Coogler makes all the right moves.

Returning to the titular train station for the film’s third act is as terrifying as you’d imagine. Watching the raw footage the first time was hard enough, but now we feel like we know Oscar inside and out, which makes the reenactment of his death simply earth-shattering. The fact that this dramatization is somehow more gut-wrenching than the raw footage is a testament to the power of cinema.

When I got out of the San Francisco press screening for Fruitvale Station, all I wanted to do was rush home, kiss my wife, and tell her I love her. I darted out of the theater in a panic, a sense of urgency compelling me to walk faster, faster, faster. I wanted to get home so bad I could burst. Then, I remembered something that stopped me cold. My ride home? A BART train. Fruitvale Station will rattle you to the core.