C.H.I.P.S.

C.H.I.P.S.

C.H.I.P.S. REVIEWED

Throughout “C.H.I.P.S.”, I found myself saying that I like Dax Shepard. I liked Shepard’s first directing effort and I appreciate his work with Michael Pena and Veronica Mars. After two lesser writers shushed me, I want into Astral Plane critique mode. I played over the past materials that the three leads had made. I made a mental note of how Vincent D’Onofrio is slowly turning into my Uncle Paul. Then, I kept asking myself what I liked about C.H.I.P.S. and the answer was the theme music. So, it’s a little difficult to take anyone seriously that moans about this film missing the point. There never was a point. It was about two semi-bro Highway Patrol cops throwing down and macking on ladies. While this was an easier concept prior to the Internet learning about trigger words, it doesn’t quite play the same now. Somewhere between Postmodern Irony and the rise of special interest emotional Thinkpiece mafias, there’s little room for broad comedy. Everything has to play across a rather safe spectrum with only a razor’s edge for ingenuity. That almost seems like I’m defending the film. Had “C.H.I.P.S.” actually been clever, that would be an easier attack on the often offended. What the film manages to do is run out of material for the two leads and it stages no fewer than 11 tonal shifts in under 2 hours. Couple that with an editing job that looks like someone was trying to play “A Serbian Film” on Broadcast TV and you’ve got what doesn’t work here. Nobody wants a buddy cop movie that doesn’t have anything to say.