72 Hours

At least Kevin Hart goes all-in for the physical gags in 72 Hours, which sees his character endure an episode of projectile vomiting, go on a cocaine-fueled rampage, and become severely puffed-up after losing an encounter with a jellyfish.

Such dedication is admirable, although this lackluster comedy from director Tim Story (Barbershop) mostly squanders his committed humiliation, which doesn’t even count all the jokes about his height or his age from co-stars who are half his age (although not quite twice his size).

Hart plays Joe, a middle-aged marketing executive at a personal and professional crossroads. He has commitment issues involving his girlfriend (Teyana Taylor) and is dealing with the fallout after a pitch for a client’s new alcoholic beverage fails to connect with a younger generation.

When he’s mistakenly added to a raunchy group text for an impending bachelor party with some twentysomething guys, he laughs it off and even suggests chipping in a gift.

After some back-and-forth, Joe hatches an idea — why not actually attend? Spending a wild weekend in Miami could provide some valuable market research. Plus, he could bring the booze.

By the time Joe meets the groom, Mason (Mason Gooding), and his buddies (Marcello Hernandez, Ben Marshall, Kam Patterson), they’re bewildered but ready to party.

However, he inadvertently turns the festivities into a nightmare even before his ulterior motives are revealed, leaving him desperate to find redemption and common ground while getting his priorities in order.

As a vehicle for Hart, it’s familiar territory and almost entirely reliant on his charisma and comic timing, as Joe both instigates and orchestrates the mayhem. Everyone else is pretty much defined by their quirks or narrative function.

The wobbly screenplay generates some scattered big laughs from its cringey dynamics and intergenerational awkwardness. Mason and his gang convey an amusing rapport as the obligatory sidekicks.

However, the low-brow shenanigans become labored and contrived as the weekend rolls along, such as an extended drug-induced riff on Scarface aboard a luxury yacht. A subplot involving gangsters and their stolen narcotics shipment goes nowhere.

Moviegoer enjoyment is dependent upon buying into the ridiculous premise in 72 Hours, which, like Joe, is fun for a while before overstaying its welcome.

Rated R, 102 minutes.