“I guess it’s just a case of the dropsies/ They drop me like a dirty shirt/ Oooh those flopsy topsy turvy dropsies/ Really hurt.” Those inane lyrics, delivered by Reg (Adam McNab) with the cloying conviction of a Broadway musical lead (that isn’t meant as a compliment) might be the best song in The Cocksure Lads, one of the worst excuses for a supposedly rock ‘n’ roll movie I have ever had to sit through.
The fictional band has a respectable enough pedigree. Writer-director Murray Foster and fellow Moxy Früvous bandmate Mike Ford tapped their fondness for mid-‘60s beat music on their 2010 album The Greatest Hits of the Cocksure Lads, 1963-1968. Songs like “A Case of the Dropsies” were well-played if banal faux British Invasion ditties, but as translated to film, the already watered down material is subjected to vanilla personalities that render the songs nearly flavorless.
This ersatz Beatlemania isn’t what Martians who had never heard The Beatles might come up with if they wanted to conquer Earth; it’s what Martians who had never heard The Rutles might come up with if they thought, with good reason, that earthlings had gotten even dumber since that uninspired parody. One might go so far as to think that The Cocksure Lads is a Martian’s take on a Nickelodeon or Disney Channel rock movie if it weren’t for the sex and drugs that make up the filmmakers’ idea of a rock and roll lifestyle. Foster should know better, having played in bands since the ‘80s, but this comes off as if nobody involved had ever seen A Hard Day’s Night or even Spice World, so poorly does it capture the energy of a good rock ‘n’ roll movie.
Set in the present day, the movie documents British band The Cocksure Lads as they set foot across the pond for the first time to conquer America – or Canada, as a running joke keeps pointing out that their maiden North American voyage in fact brings them to Toronto. But soon after they arrive and break out into what is supposed to be an impromptu performance demonstrating the great talent of these cocksure lads, they break up when lead singer Dusty (Lyndon Ogbourne) wants a higher share of the band’s royalties.
There’s a lesson in young Dusty’s greed for money over rock ‘n’ roll, but it’s a lesson lost on the filmmakers, who create in-band conflict without creating a band that anyone would want to stay together. If only their breakup meant the movie were over in five minutes and everyone could go home early, but the squabbling is an excuse for Dusty and company to wander Toronto in search of birds to shag before the band inevitably reforms, albeit without a whiff of triumph.
Quirky backstories are no substitute for personality; take Blake (Edward Hillier), who is such a germophobe that he has to take a bath two or three times a day. Perhaps this is a subtle Canadian jab at filthy Brits, but it’s not funny. The band’s driver, Monty (Peter Higginson), is the closest to a human character here, as he comes with his own story of thwarted musical stardom, but he, too, is little more than a cartoonish idea of what human experience is. In fact, I’ve watched cartoons show more human emotion and expression in fifteen minutes than these supposedly charming lads exude in the length of a feature film. The Cocksure Lads invites a cruel but apt pun: it’s completely limp.