It’s clear what kind of comedy “The Little Hours” is going to be in its first five minutes, when a mid-14th-century Italian nun named Fernanda (played by Aubrey Plaza) returns to her convent from a long trek through the woods with the community’s donkey. A fellow nun, Genevra (Kate Micucci), peppers her with questions: Where’s she been? Why’s the donkey with her? Why is she wearing her black habit instead of her white habit? And all along, Fernanda rolls her eyes like an exasperated teen girl…or, more accurately, like an Aubrey Plaza. Finally, the handyman walks by and says hello, and Fernanda and Genevra both snap, “Hey, don’t you fucking talk to us!”
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That’s the main joke in “The Little Hours,” repeated for 90 minutes: Here we are, in medieval times, among holy servants who swear like sailors, snipe like schoolchildren, and just generally seem to hate every aspect of serving the Lord. It’s never a riotously funny joke, in part because it’s a little predictable, and in part because writer-director Jeff Baena lets the film’s pace get way too slack for a comedy — even for one that relies so much on deadpan. And yet there’s something weirdly admirable about how committed Baena is to the bit. Even if “The Little Hours” never becomes a knee-slapper, it’s consistently entertaining…kind of like a laid-back, stretched-out Monty Python sketch.
It also has a quietly heartwarming quality, similar to Baena’s earlier two films, “Life After Beth” and “Joshy.” So far, his authorial signature seems to be quirky, fantastical films populated by top-shelf comic actors cumulatively expressing something poignant and true about the human need to find happiness even in the worst of circumstances.
In addition to Plaza and Micucci, “The Little Hours” has John C. Reilly as Father Tommasso, a mellow drunk who’s too lenient with his flock, and Molly Shannon as the sweet-natured Mother Superior, who keeps a secret stash of pornographic illustrations on her bookshelf. The movie adds scene-stealing appearances by Fred Armisen as the bishop of the diocese and Nick Offerman as a mean-spirited local lord who nurtures a deep hatred for the Guelph.
The star of the ensemble, though, is Alison Brie, playing Alessandra, a melancholy nun who gets treated like a VIP because her father (Paul Reiser) donates so much money to the church, though she wishes he’d redirect that money to her dowry so she could leave the order and get married. Alessandra’s spirits brighten with the arrival of Massetto (Dave Franco), a handsome refugee who’s posing as a deaf-mute. And she’s not the only one who takes an interest in Massetto. By the end of the movie, both Fernanda and Genevra will have taken a crack at bedding him too, though for very different reasons.
“The Little Hours” is very loosely based on Giovanni Boccaccio’s frequently bawdy 14th-century anthology “The Decameron,” which includes a tale about a fake mute ravaged by horny nuns. In Baena’s version, every major character has some kind of secret, which gets teased out over the course of the movie. That’s an ingenious bit of plotting by Baena, which begins with the opening scene, where it’s obvious Fernanda’s not telling the whole truth about her nighttime adventures with the donkey. Bit by bit, “The Little Hours” fills in her story, which becomes more shocking and amusingly preposterous with each turn.
The film has the basic structure of a farce, with escalating deceptions culminating in a big, outrageous set-piece. (It’s best not to spoil it, but suffice to say, it involves psychedelic drugs, a big bonfire, and copious nudity.) But Baena’s overall approach is wrong for farce. The actors are too relaxed, and the script tends to let too many seconds and minutes tick by between gags. The most outright hilarious scenes in “The Little Hours” involve the minor characters: a lecture on scuzzy European tribes by Offerman’s lord, and a climactic tribunal led by Armisen’s appalled bishop. (As he runs down the list of the convent’s crimes, the bishop sighs, “Do you think I’ve ever written down ‘eating blood’ before?”)
But while the humor here never quite achieves any kind of giddy liftoff, it’s always at least a little bit funny to see ancient Italians in religious garb converse like colleagues in a 21st-century corporate office. The running joke serves a purpose, too, because ultimately “The Little Hours” is about common yearnings spanning across decades. The film may deal with cruel castle-dwellers, remorseless witches, and sexy nuns, but it’s really about people who break some very rigid rules for the sake of pursuing pleasure. God bless them. [B+]
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