“The Wrong Girls” is the right comedy if you want to unplug your brain and laugh. The first punchline doesn’t even have words. It’s just two stoner roommates, Frankie (Kristen Stewart) and Molly (Alia Shawkat), ripping a mega-hit and coughing at each other. Finally, they speak in unison: “Jinx.”
Frankie, a Stanford dropout, engineered the living room’s impressive “bong-a-tron.” Molly, a wannabe chef, bakes brownies spiked with pot and blue cheese. (We’re assured they‘re delicious.) These screw-ups share everything: a taste in thrift store cat paintings, a chillaxed attitude toward overdue bills and a comfy inertia that’s kept them both stunted, frustrating Molly’s boyfriend Josh (a likable Zack Fox). In turn, possessive Frankie thinks Josh is a buzzkill.
Soon, the insular twosome will share a mind, too, thanks to a telepathic drug they ingest like idiots, not that they have any gray matter to spare. That’s not entirely fair. The friends aren’t dumb; they’ve just been baked for so long that acting dumb is a habit. (Don’t worry, writer-director Dylan Meyer won’t force them to sober up.)
The plot is confidently stupid. A criminal courier (LaKeith Stanfield) mistakes Frankie for her more successful doppelganger Francis (also played by Stewart), saddling her with a briefcase that a trio of dangerous Danes are determined to steal back. Thus, our heroes must peel themselves off from the couch and go on the run with their resentful felines Dio and GG bouncing along in backpacks.
Voiced by Seth Rogen and Kumail Nanjiani, the pets have opinions their owners don’t want to hear. “I’m pretty sure they’re the ones who gave us fleas,” GG sneers. I like those comics and live with two annoying Maine Coons. Nevertheless, these cats are too chatty.
Meyer is a screenwriter-turned-filmmaker who met Stewart on the set of the underseen 2015 comic thriller “American Ultra.” In the years since, she has also become Stewart’s wife. That’s important only because “Wrong Girls” has the pinpoint silliness of soulmates who spend a lot of time goofing around at home. Meyer wrote the script a decade ago about her friendship with producer Maggie McLean, but no doubt she knows better than anyone how much the smart and sensible-projecting Stewart delights in acting the fool.
The jokes are as flawlessly tailored to Stewart as Chanel couture, be they zany schemes, spacey freak-outs or the sly middle finger Stewart flashes with her 818-tattooed knuckles while her character suffers a jerk (Tony Hale). And they custom-fit Shawkat’s mellower Molly, who trots behind in Frankie’s wake of destruction. The sci-fi twist in the script turns their relationship into a send-up of co-dependence. Their insular bond can’t last forever — can it?
Meyer subverts a couple tropes, embraces others. Comedy capers like this usually deflate in the third act when their pleasures get punctured by unfunny gunfire. The movie sees that trap coming and dodges it by the skin of its teeth. Nimbly, it manages to be both a pacifist film and a subversive one with no faith in the system as it stands. Characters deliver jabs at “Jeff Bozos” and the Epstein class while slyly revealing you shouldn’t trust their takes, either. Frankie invents a new nonsensical insult, calling Molly’s boyfriend Josh “such a customer.” Sure, whatever that means!
“The Wrong Girls” shares its own hive mind with David Wain’s also-good “Gail Daughtry and the Celebrity Sex Pass,” released earlier this summer. Both are star-studded, hyper-L.A. chase comedies that treat their central contrivances as nothing more than scaffolding for the scenes that actually count. Who cares what happens to the Danes’ precious briefcase? We just want to see Frankie and Molly melt down upon learning that their favorite all-you-can-eat lunch spot is closing due to uncertainty in the buffet sector (a eulogy for the real-life Souplantation, whose absence remains deeply felt).
Even within the tenuous reality of the movie, Frankie and Molly aren’t focused on saving their own necks, especially after their clairvoyant powers kick in and the friends realize they can communicate with closed mouths. As lab-coated figures played by Kate McKinnon and Geena Davis attempt to deliver exposition, the pals drown them out chit-chatting about drivel. The stars know it takes skill to act dumb. Christina Applegate described it best: About her portrayal of hair metal bimbo Kelly Bundy in “Married … with Children,” Applegate said, “In her own mind, she’s a genius.”
The film is just wonky enough to wonder if some beats got chopped out of it, like a go-nowhere running joke about how Hale’s front door won’t close or an aside about how Stewart’s Frankie once Jerry-rigged an escape parachute, which cinematographer Todd Banhazl seems to be reminding us of when he lingers on a shot of an awkward shindig’s helium décor. Banhazl does pull off one of the few inventive psychedelic sequences I’ve seen in a while. (To see another, go stream the giddy new campus comedy “Pizza Movie.”)
Or maybe “The Wrong Girls” is simply making an artistic statement about the joy of sloppiness. Here, to be chaotic and colorful is a badge of honor. Just compare the girls’ cluttered digs with their pursuers’ sterile white suits. In that same spirit of excess, there’s an extra scene in the end credits that goes over like a lead balloon. No one in my theater chuckled. But I respected it anyway for insisting on these jokers’ right to remain an unapologetic mess.
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