Ben Stiller's TROPIC THUNDER is a film that does not believe in "murdering your darlings". Though it's comfortable with the shockingly gory dispatching of many other creatures (great, small, or endangered), the edict in the editing room was apparently "Spare the laughs, damn the satire!".

By easing up on the vitriol, Stiller has blown a golden opportunity to craft the most vicious Hollywood broadside since THE PLAYER (at great expense to the town's oldest studio!). It would've been a beautiful burn. It also would've been hacked to pieces when it tested poorly, stitched together for an obligatory two-week release, and derisively remembered as the HEAVEN'S GATE of comedy. And it would've landed Stiller in "Director Jail" for an eternity, thus consigning him to a lifetime of paycheck gigs in four-quadrant pap like A NIGHT AT THE MUSEUM.

In refusing to risk pariahdom for an odd angry shot at glory, Stiller has imbued TROPIC THUNDER with a caustic undercurrent of self-loathing. Perhaps this is because he realizes he's too caught up in the money-making, standard-lowering machinery of Hollywood to turn a flamethrower on it and get away clean: how does the star of MEET THE FOCKERS and ALONG CAME POLLY excoriate the vulgarity of the business that's made him a multi-millionaire without coming off as a champion hypocrite?

That he can't bring himself to torch the lie pisses him off all the more - which explains the savagery of the "Simple Jack" parody that's prompted a pack of bored do-gooders to organize an ill-considered boycott against TROPIC THUNDER. Stiller knows a day will come - maybe five or ten years from now - when he'll be susceptible to appearing in a prestige-pic piece of shit intended to showcase his "virtuosity" by spazzing out in a caricature of mental retardation; he understands the movie star disconnect from society that makes this seem like a noble thing to do. So while Stiller's Tugg Speedman may play like a garish swipe at an aloof icon like Tom Cruise (more on his TROPIC THUNDER scene-stealing in a moment), it's mostly aimed inward; it's THE BEN STILLER SHOW parody of what Ben Stiller might yet (or has already) become.

This lashing out in every possible direction addles the viewer pretty good, but Stiller at least indicates that he's in on the madness by kicking off the film proper with The Temptations' "Ball of Confusion" as a fleet of helicopters buzz the tree line of what's supposed to be the Vietnamese jungle (this all comes after those fake trailers that cleverly precede the DreamWorks logo). It's a confident opening that portends something unique, and it deftly leads right into the climactic action sequence of the film-within-the-film - an adaptation of a highly-regarded piece of Vietnam War nonfiction penned by a hook-handed veteran named "Four Leaf" Tayback (Nick Nolte, subtly kicking ass and sending up his own eccentricities in the bargain). It's convincingly overwrought (replete with squib-riddled Willem Dafoe Christ-pose), and it all appears to be proceeding as meticulously choreographed until Speedman's inability to emote as effortlessly as his five-time Academy Award-winning co-star, Kirk Lazarus (Robert Downey Jr.), compels him to sabotage the scene right as the production's lunatic demolitions expert (a judiciously-used Danny McBride) sets off the fireballing money shot.

There's nothing especially cutting or revelatory about actors' egos derailing the best laid plans of, in this case, an in-over-his-head director (Steve Coogan), but the characters' excesses certainly catch one's attention: Downey's in blackface, Jack Black's a drug-addicted comedian, and Brandon T. Jackson's a branding-obsessed hip-hop star sporting the moniker "Alpa Chino". They're not an honorable or even remotely likable group, which leaves poor Jay Baruchel shouldering the audience's sympathy as a young ingenue who has yet to be corrupted by stardom (though he's definitely game for the spoils: when the film's completion seems an impossibility, Baruchel mourns that he never got to use his performance to get laid).

Still, when the boys get caught out in a real firefight with a heavily-armed drug cartel, their erratic behavior is more than inventive enough to keep the laughs coming. Downey's monologue apprising Stiller of the perils of going "full-tard" for an Oscar has already been spoiled in myriad clips and trailers, but it still works within the context of the film because it's so disgustingly true (he could've reached further back for Cliff Robertson's win for CHARLY, which can be caveated as a "full-tard" to "no-tard" and back again conversion). And Black's unhinged portrayal of a scumbag character-comic suffering from withdrawal is probably the most nuanced work he's done since JESUS' SON (which means he's slashing away at his own sell-out compromises as well).

As the stranded cast presses farther into the jungle, Stiller makes a point of exhausting every tired music cue one might run across in films of this ilk (or, as the meta case may be, the ilk of the film-within-the-film): "Sympathy for the Devil", "Run Through the Jungle", "For What It's Worth"... they're all here - with the last brilliantly signaling the phony spiritual conversion of Speedman from unappreciated vanity case to appreciated vanity case (the cartel loved "Simple Jack"). Though the movie stumbles when it gives in to action movie convention (Stiller's commenting on nothing when he gives the actors their hero moments in order to extricate them from "the shit), it's been so rough and so consistently uproarious up until that point that the cheat is excusable.

That's because TROPIC THUNDER diminished expectations for true satire an hour earlier when Tom Cruise came grandstanding into view as Les Grossman, the balding, paunchy, invective-flinging Satan whose studio financed the over-budget misadventure of the title. Though Cruise is fantastic in the part (the consensus seems to be that he saved his career with this one performance), his participation gives the superstar hierarchy a pass. At least Bruce Willis and Julia Roberts had the balls to play themselves in a shitty Oscar-grubbing drama at the end of THE PLAYER; Cruise getting to clown it up in a movie that's so clear-eyed about the soullessness of the industry he epitomizes lets everyone in on the joke.

It's a generous act on Stiller's behalf to help a fellow professional when he's down, but a true satirist would've gone in for the kill. That Stiller can't summon up the bile to say all of what he knows about this industry leaves him complicit in the fraud. Still, he's nothing if not honest in defeat: Cruise dancing triumphant over the credits is a killer white flag.

Faithfully submitted,

Mr. Beaks