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A franchise that began with as a rapid-fire cascade of gags to rival the Marx Brothers has evolved, profoundly, into a rich and somber elegiac meditation on middle age. And why not? The key thing about Michael Winterbottom’s The Trip movies has always been that they were making it up as they went along, and only now, at this fourth and supposedly final juncture, can we see the retrospective and rather monumental path they’ve struck.
Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon trade quips, barbs and, of course, impressions once again, always in glorious (and exceedingly expensive) locations over glorious (and exceedingly expensive) lunches, but that banter is now the side dish rather than the main meal. Indeed, the repartee is deliberately perfunctory, a sort of greatest hits, with quick reminders that the lads can do Roger Moore and Mick Jagger, Al Pacino and Rod Stewart (they refrain from re-mining Michael Caine). A brief foray into Ray Winstone is gut-bustingly funny, a reminder of the experience of pretty much the entire first two movies.
This is Winterbottom’s most cinematic, crafted, layered and storied of the four films, and by far the most moving. The tone is often melancholic, aided by a selection of sweeping, mournful music that represents a bold choice for an ostensibly silly comedy series (of course, it’s no longer that). At one point I cried. It’s a send-off to the boys for the fans; whatever you do, if you haven’t visited this series yet, don’t begin here. This is not the starter’s pistol, it’s the end of the race, and the runners are gasping for breath, fully aware of their own mortality and how heroic they really may or may not be.
Out Now On VOD Worldwide.