No one likes a comedy that isn’t funny. There is some unspoken law, an unwritten edict, that it is better to make a terrible drama than it is to make a terrible comedy. In the former, you can appreciate the sentiment, commend them for their intent, and pardon some pretty heinous (though not all) acts of bad filmmaking. However, when you’re stuck for 90+ minutes watching one bad joke after another, we all suddenly become far less tolerant. For whatever reason, you don’t get brownie points for not being funny, no matter how hard you try.

But perhaps that is the fatal flaw in Dom Hemingway, Richard Shepard‘s latest indie comedy–it was trying too hard. Allegedly, the movie is a raunchy comedy about a convicted (and socially demented) safecracker, recently released from a twelve year prison stint as he seeks to receive compensation for keeping his mouth shut. Yet from the opening scene, where Jude Law recites an impromptu Song of Solomon to the glory of his penis, the film reveals itself only as a visual record of failing humor–the jokes are offensive, crude, and often blindingly stupid.

One is almost tempted to blame Law for this extended thespian ego-trip, seeming to relish his own personal two dimensional madman. That would be the case, if it weren’t for his self-conscious performance throughout. With every clever insult, every fist fight, and every act of screaming defiance against the world at large, the character seems less and less plausible. Law seems to lose momentum as the film continues, or at least the gaps in his performance become increasingly obvious. The bottom line is that Dom’s character doesn’t suit Law from the beginning, (who otherwise is a pretty good actor), and the role may have been better if played by another actor.

This brings us to the film’s second major problem: its melodramatic, bipolar plot line. The blame can’t be laid entirely on Law when the writing is so poor and the story so contrived. The whole thing is about a no-good scoundrel who sees the error of his ways and reforms, yet his sincerity is never convincing, either before or after the transformation. While some of the jokes were quite funny, and some of the dialogue good (particularly when Dom confronts a former employer), the movie is more concerned with convincing us of Dom’s insanity than developing anything else in the plot, to the point that it all became incredibly awkward.

Dom Hemingway suffers from multiple personality disorder, shifting back and forth between crude, thoughtless comedy and a sentimental morality play (a la John Bunyan). In one scene Dom is on the verge of attacking his former employer, ten minutes later he’s strutting naked through an apple orchard, to express how upset he was over his earlier actions. One scene he’s smashing goons in the face in the midst of a daring escape, the next he’s rolling on the ground in front of his wife’s grave as he indulges in an emotional breakdown. There was little tonal continuity, and the back-and-forth between debauchery and sentimentality was forced and artificial.

Much about the film feels like a crude parody of real life. One of the few enjoyable scenes is when Dom walks out of prison, streamers and toilet paper flying out of the windows behind him (think Zero de Conduit). The costuming is also one of the few positives of the film. Dom’s beautiful suit and crazy pointed elf boots leave a definite impression. Unfortunately, these odd stylistic perks don’t save Dom Hemingway from failure. It’s crude, affected, and worst of all, not funny.

For No Good Reason (2012), released by Sony Pictures Classics, is a unique documentary on the life and work of Gonzo artist Ralph Steadman. Framed as an extended interview conducted by Johnny Depp, the film features an impressive roster of appearances beyond its two headliners, including Terry Gilliam, Hal Willner, and Richard E. Grant (not to mention some interesting footage of Hunter S. Thompson and William S. Burroughs). The film moves back and forth between Steadman’s personal history, the writers and artists who influenced and collaborated with him, along with his style and technique. As a person with only a passing knowledge of Gonzo journalism, I found the film more interesting for it’s portrayal of life from the sixties into the eighties, discussing the political and social revolutions (and subsequent disillusion) of an entire generation. From Civil Rights and women’s empowerment into the decadence of the following decades, Steadman’s work documents an important time in American and western history. The film does a decent job linking Steadman with the other great writers and artists of the era– as Terry Gilliam said during an interview concerning their generation, they are part of a generation that fought hard for change, and despite their failures plan on fighting till the very end. The film was certainly educational, and for those interested in the radical experiments of the sixties and seventies, may very well be inspirational as well. Indeed, thinking of Steadman’s embrace of the grotesque in his art, highlighting the humor, irony, and horror of daily life, makes for a very powerful lesson. Yet despite it’s self-conscious striving for some deeper understanding of art, beauty, society, etc., in many ways we learn little about Ralph Steadman. The film offers only a passing view of Steadman as a person, something more akin to a guided Disney tour than a thorough investigation of his life. Johnny Depp’s deep involvement with the project, from it’s dramatic stylization, to the grating “Tim-Burtonesque” soundtrack, is undeniable, and ultimately for the worse. The obvious hero worship and romanticization of Steadman and Hunter S. Thompson’s drinking/drug life, paired with the film’s ridiculously high production value, all makes for a stylized and manicured take on the lives of these artists.

While the film nails home the importance of Steadman’s work (which indeed it should), the contradictions, hypocrisies and inconsistencies of his life ultimately remain hidden from us. For No Good Reason also features an insistent undercurrent that asserts Steadman’s equality with (if not preeminence over) Hunter S. Thompson in crafting Gonzo journalism. In between the copious discussions of their rowdy collaborations, the film slips in a claim that Steadman was the “braver” and more forward thinking artist in the creative duo. Yet in its insistence, the documentary becomes too eager to make its point, nearly manic to assert Steadman’s value as a creator. There is a brief moment in the film where we watch a recorded conversation between Steadman and Thompson, where the artist states that his illustrations were at least partially responsible for the success of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Expecting Thompson to acknowledge his contribution, Steadman only received derisive laughter in reply– apparently, little recognition was offered.

This aspect of Mr. Steadman’s life and work, those deep-seated insecurities the film unwittingly brings to the surface, are neither broached nor alluded to. What Mr. Steadman thinks or feels about Thompson’s work, or the fact that his long-time collaborator is better known and receives greater acknowledgement, is never addressed. The questions are all soft-balled, the answers charming, and we all go home happy– this wouldn’t be a problem though, except for the documentary having explicitly stated it would try to create a multisided view of Mr. Steadman’s life.

The less savory side of Mr. Steadman (from his apparent capitalist drive in selling signed prints of his work, to his jealousy over his former partner,) was largely varnished over. What darkness remains is either written off as “acting out of necessity” or portrayed in some manner of victimization. Ultimately, For No Good Reason appears as another example of what’s become Mr. Depp’s “signature” style– dark, affected, and elaborately quirky. Yet putting these mannerisms aside, the film does afford viewers an interesting perspective on an important era in our history, the decent look at the life and work of an important artist, and a really great home-movie of William S. Burroughs, emptying a .38 caliber handgun into Shakespeare’s neck. For those interested in Gonzo, the Beatniks, or the freewheeling, august beauty of Latter-Day Hippiedom, this film is worth it.