The rebel sleazily recruited by confetti-wapping convention-shatterers runs raucously back toward a traditional base that, once upon a time, greatly compromised to envelop him so.
A story. As old. As time.
Happy Gilmore—a stupendous Adam Sandler insert in every which sense, from the now-movable (?) putting green to the great sizzler in the sky haunting with infinite jest, is indubitably down in the dumps that protrude from not-quite-Boston latter-day New England.
Upon our reunion with the ferocious ice hockey goon turned super-driving gold jacketeer, he is stuck somewhere between a flask masquerading as a rock and his indefinitely suspended happy place.
He’s lost it all. But dammit, does it ever excite us that his handful of children—at least in their everybody loves a flawed hero with more-than-acute rage stage of their eternal youth—blindly go to bat for a patriarch who’s both a self-penned pariah and the perennial object of Stephen A. Smith’s wrath. This adds up, given that shocking blow that solidified his downfall from certified darlinghood grace.
Armored with a new large sum to play for (funding his daughter’s hefty collegiate ballet foray), Happy sporadically snaps out of his self-sabotaging proclivities, ultimately assuming a face on par with his namesake as he dolphin-dives back down the well called good-ol’ golf.
It’s the game that gave him everything, and that which took everything from him all the same.
In a meta-stroke, Happy Gilmore has influenced generations in-universe and out to crow-hop before teeing off. And much like the Dark Knight on extended sabbatical, the sheer fact Happy once existed, and still does, inspires anti-establishment songbirds galore to band together and sing “Endless Love” against the machine.
In the first Part II since “The Godfather’s” fellow instant classic follow-up to guarantee a trio of supporting actor Oscar noms at the strike of tee time, Happy is charged with picking up the pieces of his life. There are needles in the hay, and then there is finding that one resilient tee in a sea of broken ball-holders.
Do so, and you may stand to thwack thunderously enough to save the unforeseen new love interest: a sport you go way back with, and that finds itself presciently threatened by the rising tides of a LIV-lovin’, Savannah Banana salivation society.
Sandler’s “Uncut Gems” director Benny Safdie thrives as slimeball promoter Frank Manatee; the Goldmember to iconic returnee Shooter McGavin’s Dr. Evil. Spoilers abound: in a crunch, the enemy of our enemy must now become our friend; and what's a friend, if not someone who too loves to save a shared favorite pastime from going dark?
The front nine resembles a cable coldcut of “That’s My Boy,” with Uncle John Daly in place of Uncle Vanilla Ice, and none of that… moving on. Much like Donny Berger’s triumphant descent down Little Fenway to stop his son’s wedding, that “Simon Birch” inciting moment in “Happy Gilmore 2,” of course, came out of left field.
Meanwhile, the back nine? Simply off the rails. And as always, we cannot look away.
A Sandler film with something to say about this oftentimes troublesome day and age? Quite fitting, considering the self-reflective crescendo of the current box-office behemoth “Superman” was something out of the “Click” display menu narrative device.
You think you could get that by me, James Gunn? Lest you forget yours truly’s rejected pass at spoofing the Son of Krypton saga, proudly entitled “I Now Pronounce You Clark and Lois.”™
It’s not trying to be “Caddyshack,” or even “Happy Gilmore,” for that matter. What “Happy Gilmore 2” supposes: it’s OK to not be OK. If life were a constant good times roll montage, with no conflict to overcome or compelling hook to hitch our jiggling wagons to, then our happy places would just be places.
Three watches in, this unbiased reviewer at last appreciates Tuesday’s not gone with the wind; it’s merely submerged within the Jack Daniels Jr. my laptop’s ‘enter’ key is very very sneakily protecting for the sake of this bit.
Allow me to top myself off; next round’s on you, Sandman.
You can do it, because you just did it.
…and we’re still reaping all of the benefits.