I’m an unabashed fan of “The Trip” and its three sequels.
They’re the British talk-verité road comedies in which Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon, playing heightened versions of their quicksilver acid-tongued middle-aged selves, drive around some lovely European country, stopping for lavish lunches at Michelin-star restaurants as they slice and dice each other’s egos with the quippiest of thoughts — a one-upmanship game between frenemies that periodically bursts out into their dueling impersonations of some legendary movie star.It’s hard to pinpoint what it is that gives the “Trip” movies their special tang, but the whole rapid-fire competitive banter of Coogan and Brydon, most of which they make up on the spot, reminds me of the razzing prankishness of “A Hard Day’s Night” with a touch of the conversational enchantment of “My Dinner with Andre.” These are comedies to take seriously (though not too seriously).
They’re also dramas to take lightly.
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