Without a Paddle (2004)

Without a Paddle arrives from the summer of 2004 with the confidence of a film that knows exactly what it is and has no ambition to be anything else. Three childhood friends reunite at a funeral, discover a map, and paddle upriver in search of D. B. Cooper's vanished ransom. The plot then delivers a procession of bear chases, marijuana farmers, hippie women in a treehouse, and a hermit with dual revolvers. The film wants nothing more than to be a lark, and it largely succeeds at being a forgettable one.

Judged against the cultural markers of the current decade, the film is a barren field. The cast is white, male, and happy to remain so. Women appear as girlfriends, as hippie caricatures named Flower and Butterfly, and as little else. Race is never mentioned, which spares us any reckoning and also any insight. The wilderness exists to be fallen into, not defended, so the environmental conscience is absent. The treasure hunt critiques nothing; it merely motivates a series of pratfalls. No character wrestles with body image, neurodivergence, or identity of any kind. The D. B. Cooper material is speculation, not history rewritten. And the film never pauses to instruct us, which is its single most admirable quality.

This is not a criticism dressed as praise, nor the reverse. It is simply a classification. The movie is a product of its moment, a studio comedy assembled from the parts that worked before, and it earned $73 million against a $19 million budget, which tells you the parts still worked. Critics were unimpressed, with a 15 percent approval rating, but audiences handed it a B+. A direct-to-video sequel followed in 2009 without a single returning cast member, which is its own kind of verdict. We are left with a film of zero social consciousness, zero sermons, and a modest supply of laughs. There are worse ways to spend ninety-five minutes, though not many.