Butter

Butter never goes as balls deep as it often threatens. It’s shallow thrusts at political satire, race, and conservative middle Americana and its weird folksy rituals. It’s dissatisfying as its climax whimpers out when it should shudder and scream.

I think that’s enough metaphorical sexual talk, but there’s a general point to it. Jennifer Garner’s unholy hybrid of Sarah Palin, Michele Bachmann, and conservative Christian housewife is as sexually frustrated as she is personally unfulfilled. These two points often converge, and Butter often questions if what she needs is just a big orgasm to get her to calm down or if political mobility and craven power grabs are her orgasmic expressions.

There’s plenty of funny material to mine here, yet Butter is often surface level with an Obama standee ascending seemingly out of the blue. Then there’s the extraneous material, like Olivia Wilde’s vengeful stripper, Ashley Greene’s rebellious daughter, and Hugh Jackman’s scenery-chewing car salesman/dumbass. Butter wants to use the prism of a butter carving competition to speak out about the near absurdity of political campaigning and politics as a wider topic, but it also wants to be a heavily sentimental tale of hard work and ethics paying off in the end.

Such as it exists, Butter exists in a phantom zone where the sentiment ruins the bitter, better parts of the movie. At least Garner delivers her tightly wound performance without a hint of irony or self-awareness. It’s a solid reminder of what a capable comedic actress she is as she’s all but wasted in numerous barely-there supporting roles. All she needs is an Election of her own to really go full-scale Tracy Flick monstrous and demonstrate her skill set.