Maintenance Required is the latest adaptation inspired by the 1937 Hungarian play Parfumerie, famously reimagined in The Shop Around the Corner and You’ve Got Mail.
Lacey Uhlmeyer’s film transplants the classic story of anonymous romance and business rivalry into the gritty world of two competing auto repair shops in Oakland.
Here, Charlie (Madelaine Petsch) runs a female-led garage lovingly inherited from her father and battles Beau (Jacob Scipio), a corporate-backed competitor with a charismatic but conflicting edge.
Despite acknowledging its cinematic forebears with occasional references, Maintenance Required struggles to capture the charm and nuance that made its predecessors resonate.
The film aims for a modern twist by foregrounding themes of female empowerment and small business survival, yet falters in delivering engaging character depth or narrative momentum.
Characters Under Pressure Without Direction
Madelaine Petsch shines in many scenes as Charlie, bringing warmth and charm to a woman who pits herself against the odds to keep her father’s garage alive.
The chemistry between her and Katy O’Brien’s Kam and Madison Bailey’s Izzy enlivens early moments, their banter crackling with humor and camaraderie. Kam’s social butterfly energy and Izzy’s customer-friendly warmth support Charlie’s underdog status effectively.
Yet, Charlie’s portrayal as a “grease monkey” clashes with her consistently polished look and poised composure, often undercutting the film’s grounded intentions.
It’s difficult to reconcile her skill in hands-on car repair with the appearance of someone primed more for front-page fashion than mechanical labor. Scenes implying her discomfort with male attention feel unconvincing when juxtaposed with her confident presentation.
Jacob Scipio’s Beau is a puzzle. He’s both a devoted car enthusiast and a ruthless corporate agent tasked with upending Charlie’s business. His personality oscillates between a charming car lover and a cold mercenary, manipulating prices and crushing competitors.
This contradiction holds potential for internal conflict but is never fully explored, leaving Beau more of a caricature than a complex figure.
The film’s central device, an anonymous online correspondence between Charlie and Beau, offers a classic setup. Yet, the script provides limited insight or emotional growth through their text exchanges. Unlike You’ve Got Mail, Maintenance Required’s voice-overs feel uninspired, rarely revealing new layers beneath the surface.
The Clash of Small Businesses and Corporate Power
At the heart of Maintenance Required is a conflict that reflects real-world tensions: the fight between a beloved local business and a sprawling corporate chain. Jim Gaffigan’s Mr. Miller heads Miller Boys, a conglomerate doubling as a villainous figure whose overwhelming presence threatens O’Malley’s garage.
Maintenance Required (Credit: Prime Video)
The depiction of Miller Boys and its executives borders on the cartoonish, evoking caricatures akin to Austin Powers’ Dr. Evil or Barbie’s corporate villains. Gaffigan’s flanking blondes flick smoke, and the corporate greed is scripted with broad strokes, undermining any subtle critique of capitalism or gentrification.
Beau enthusiastically revels in manipulating prices and squeezing clients, contrasting with moments when he proposes converting classic cars to electric, hinting at a better future.
However, this artist-versus-capitalist tension plays out inconsistently, diluting dramatic potential. Many of these character traits are confined to dialogue that seldom feels organic or emotionally charged.
Romance Struggles to Spark in a Crowded Garage
The romantic thread between Charlie and Beau possesses undeniable chemistry on-screen but is hampered by clumsy writing and contrivances. Beau’s duplicitous identity online confidant and real-life opponent creates tension, but also feels forced.
The film expects us to accept Charlie’s reluctance to share personal information even as she spends hours messaging a stranger, a discrepancy never convincingly addressed.
Their relationship’s development is slow, and when the truth emerges, the subsequent fallout and forgiveness feel rushed and lack emotional payoff.
The film’s scripting around their breakups and makeups does little to hook viewers emotionally, leaving the romance feeling perfunctory in a story that otherwise clings to major plot points without subtlety.
The supporting characters fit familiar rom-com archetypes, with best friends pushing for romance and stirring up drama, but they do little to enrich the story. Moments like Izzy opening a nail salon in the garage reception add a touch of humor, yet they fail to bring greater depth to the unfolding drama.
Style Over Substance: The Film’s Biggest Challenge
Visually and tonally, Maintenance Required wavers between grounded realism and stylized flares reminiscent of Riverdale’s neon palette and heightened affectations. This stylistic ambiguity confuses the film’s identity, making it hard to gauge if it strives for authentic romantic comedy or a heightened soap-opera pastiche.
Narratively, it attempts to weave multiple threads of online romance, business rivalry, female empowerment, and classic car restoration into a cohesive whole, but ends up tangled. The story’s pacing suffers, often stalling on exposition or inconsequential subplots.
Scenes meant to build emotional resonance, such as Charlie’s late-night repairs on “Marge,” her father’s beloved Bronco, linger but rarely transcend to genuine warmth or depth.
Final Assessment: A Car That Needs Serious Maintenance
Maintenance Required is a romantic comedy with promising ingredients: talented leads, a rich backdrop, and a classic storyline with a modern twist.
Unfortunately, it sputters through a screenplay weighed down by inconsistent character motivations, predictable plot beats, and a failure to update the emotional stakes its predecessors expertly handled decades ago.
Petsch and Scipio share undeniable screen chemistry, but this is never fully capitalized on. Their characters remain frustratingly underdefined, caught between caricature and complexity without fully becoming either.
Supporting characters and thematic ambitions never gain enough traction to lift the film beyond its clunky mechanics.
As a homage to classics like You’ve Got Mail and The Shop Around the Corner, Maintenance Required is respectful but lacks the charm, wit, and character insight that made those earlier films beloved. It settles for spectacle over substance, style over spirit.
For viewers wanting a breezy romance with vintage motors, it may offer moments of distraction. For those seeking a fresh or meaningful update to a cherished narrative template, this film might leave you wishing for a long-overdue tune-up.
At the heart of Colin Hanks’ moving documentary John Candy: I Like Me lies an emotion few films about celebrities dare to convey: pure honesty.
The film opens with a perfect bit of irony when Bill Murray jokes about Hanks finding someone who might say something bad about Candy. It is both humorous and impossible, as everyone who knew John Candy seems to share the same sentiment: he was simply good.
Hanks frames Candy’s story not as a distant Hollywood remembrance but as an intimate portrayal of the man behind the legend. The documentary uses his funeral as a grounding point, moving gracefully between present recollections and past memories.
Through talk show segments, behind-the-scenes clips, and rare interviews, we watch as pieces of Candy’s life come together like moments in a family scrapbook. He was not only a beloved comedian but also a father, husband, and man whose vulnerability was hidden behind laughter.
The film’s emotional rhythm grows from those who loved him most, his children, Chris and Jennifer, and his wife, Rosemary. Their reflections remind the viewer that, beyond the lights and laughter, Candy was a man whose warmth filled every space he entered.
He treated his craft and those around him with sincerity, a quality as rare as it was disarming in a business often more concerned with image than humanity.
A Talent Too Good for Hollywood’s Cruel Demands
Dan Aykroyd’s description of his best friend as a “grand man” captures the essence of Candy’s presence both on and off screen. He was large not only in body but also in spirit. Yet, that very physicality, the broad frame that Hollywood often turned into the punchline of jokes, was a constant battle for him.
Candy lost his father to heart failure when he was just five years old, an event that left a lifelong mark. His family history shadowed every success he earned. Behind the laughter, Candy carried the silent fear that his weight and stress could lead him down a similar path.
His son Chris’ heartbreaking reflection, “His mind was overloaded,” echoes the struggle he carried daily, a burden intensified by an industry that rarely showed compassion.
Rosemary’s recollection is particularly painful. She shares how Candy’s early attempts to lose weight were actively discouraged by studio executives and managers.
Hollywood wanted the funny, lovable “big guy,” not the healthier or happier version of the man himself. The same system that made him a household name also turned his body and insecurities into content for cheap laughter.
It is here that Hanks’ direction strikes at the truth of fame: the irony of being adored publicly while fighting private pain. Candy was a man whose compassion and humor made others feel lighter, even as he carried more than his share of emotional weight.
The Art of Being John Candy
While I Like Me deals with loss and fragility, it never settles into sadness. Hanks ensures that Candy is remembered not for his death but for his vibrant life and artistry.
Through his iconic performances in Planes, Trains & Automobiles, Uncle Buck, Home Alone, and Splash, Candy displayed a range that went far beyond slapstick comedy. He mastered sincerity just as easily as comedy, turning humor into connection rather than ridicule.
John Candy: I Like Me (Credit: Prime Video)
His time with SCTV revealed a performer who understood people, not just punchlines. Alongside comic legends like Eugene Levy, Martin Short, Andrea Martin, and Gilda Radner, Candy helped shape a uniquely Canadian brand of humor grounded in warmth and humanity. His characters are eccentric, flawed, yet deeply kind, reflecting him.
Perhaps the defining moment of his film career arrives in Planes, Trains & Automobiles during an emotional exchange with Steve Martin. After enduring a merciless rant from Martin’s character, Candy’s Del Griffith quietly says, “I like me.”
That line becomes the soul of Hanks’ documentary. It is simple honesty at its most powerful, an unexpectedly profound defense of self-acceptance in a world that made it hard for Candy to love himself fully.
Candy believed that laughter could bridge emotional distance. He performed not to dominate the stage but to connect. Every grin, every tear, every slight tilt of his head carried sincerity.
Audiences saw in him not a movie star but a reflection of people they loved: an uncle, a father, a friend who always found something to smile about.
A Legacy Woven Through Love and Laughter
Hanks, along with editors Shane Reid and Darrin Roberts, crafts a deeply textured portrait of influence. The film threads together dozens of voices, actors, writers, and collaborators, each describing Candy’s profound impact. It is a reminder that legacy is not measured by awards or fame but by how deeply one touches others.
Candy’s short life produced an extraordinary career. In less than two decades, he built a body of work still quoted, studied, and celebrated. His humor was never cruel or sarcastic; it was grounded in decency. Even as he endured pressure, exhaustion, and health concerns, Candy remained a symbol of goodness.
His colleagues describe him as the person who always had time to listen, to comfort, and to laugh at himself gently when others might have grown bitter.
The documentary moves beyond nostalgia. It feels like a letter from those who adored him to the man they continue to miss. Every frame is filled with affection and a quiet sadness for what might have been. Yet, there’s also peace in knowing that Candy’s work endures as evidence of who he truly was.
For his children, I Like Me becomes more than a film; it is a record of love and honesty. It shows how their father’s legacy goes beyond the roles he played. He embodied kindness in every aspect of life. His humor came not from making others feel small but from lifting them up.
Remembering the Grand Man
John Candy: I Like Me closes not with sorrow but gratitude. It honors the laughter he gave, the warmth he shared, and the humanity he represented. Hanks avoids unnecessary dramatics, letting the people who knew Candy best do the storytelling. The result feels deeply personal, an embrace through time.
There is a lingering image of Candy that the documentary leaves behind: a man surrounded by loved ones, smiling because he knows he made people happy.
That smile tells his story better than any biography could. Though his career ended far too early, his memory continues to inspire generations of performers who strive to be both funny and kind.
The greatest measure of John Candy’s life is not found in fame, but in the affection that still fills conversations about him. His spirit lives on in the moments of laughter that bring people together, in the warmth shared among friends, and in the comfort of knowing someone like him once walked among us.
The film’s message, embodied by Candy’s simple yet enduring line “I like me,” serves as a gentle reminder for all: to love oneself, to forgive one’s flaws, and to appreciate the beauty of kindness.
Colin Hanks’ documentary does more than remember a legend; it reminds us that humor, when anchored in empathy, can be the most powerful expression of love.
