Words by Gabe Durham//Illustration by Ryan Flynn
Here’s thing about Stiller, Vaughn, the Wilsons, Carell, and Ferrell*—they’re all talented. The trouble comes when funny people build up the kind of credibility where they’re in 90% of mainstream comedies, and then they get lazy. I’m talking about “Along Came Polly,” “Envy,” “You, Me and Dupree,” “My Super Ex-Girlfriend,” “Meet the Fockers,” “The Break-Up,” etc. It’s always irritating when good comedic actors make bad movies.

But Will Ferrell shouldn’t be held accountable for the crimes of his colleagues. Sure, “Kicking and Screaming,” “Bewitched,” and “Melinda and Melinda” weren’t so hot, but I’m just impressed that Ferrell has still gone nowhere near the genre of Diluted Romantic Comedy Often Co-Starring Jennifer Anniston.

When Ferrell is working with his own stuff, you can trust him. “Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby” is Ferrell’s second partnership with co-writer/director Adam McKay. While the characters are different from “Anchorman,” the tone is identical. The movie’s subtitle and its introductory Eleanor Roosevelt misquote act as a signal to the audience—each action, speech, plot turn, moral, and character arc that you are about to see is purely a backdrop for comedy. None of it matters, so anything can happen.

You take Ferrell’s Bush impression, slap a NASCAR jersey and a soul patch on him, and you’ve got Ricky Bobby, the man who as a boy could say nothing but, “I want to go fast.” The character is better than any sad Bush imitation (Dennis Quaid in the agonizing “American Dreamz”) we’ve seen since Ferrell left SNL.

Opposite Ferrell is John C. Reilly, loving a break from being a subtle dramatic actor. They make a good pair. Ferrell could have easily cast Anchorman’s David Koechner for the role of Cal, but he wisely moved him into the background.

“Talladega” only plays into comedic stereotypes if it can one-up them. In one scene, Ricky signs a woman’s baby. In another, Ricky learns to conquer his fear by driving with a live cougar in the backseat. The South is the butt of plenty of jokes (How can it not be in a movie about NASCAR?), especially whenever the gay Frenchman is onscreen. Sacha Cohen plays the role of Perrier-sponsored Jean Girard much less plausibly than his “Ali G” characters, but with the same comic timing.

The supporting cast nails it most of the time. Young Grayson Russell’s one-liners, Amy Adams’ mock sentimental speeches, and the very talented Jane Lynch’s moral reeducation of Ricky’s sons all get big laughs.

Misfires include forced scenes between Molly Shannon and Greg Germann, some “for no good reason” cameos, and a few too-quotable-for-their-own-good moments, like Girard’s pandering “Hakuna Matata, bitches.” And by now, Ferrell should know better than to run around naked in every movie, but it’s almost a trademark, like including references to awful bands like Styx and White Snake.

There are outtakes during the credits that show the actors laughing, playing and improvising. It looks effortless, like the whole movie just happened on accident one weekend. Don’t let them fool you. This movie has hard work written all over it. Will Ferrell is dead-serious about being funny—That’s why he’s on top.

• Notice that the words “Frat Pack” appear nowhere in this review.