A real-life heist is the basis for satisfying and swiftly-moving crime-comedy series The Sticky. Its talented cast gets to have a lot of fun in this playful fictionalisation, writes Eliza Janssen.
The Sticky: Limited Series
I always regret ordering pancakes. As a breakfast order, they have to be just about the least nutritious, energising option available—and it’s impossible to resist smothering everything in way too much thick, sugary syrup. The rest of the day is always a sticky, lethargic write-off.
That’s thankfully not the case with The Sticky, Prime Video’s playful fictionalisation of the Great Canadian Maple Syrup Heist, a bizarre true-crime case that remains the most valuable theft in Canadian history. IRL, the incident’s five culprits received millions in fines and between eight months to eight years in prison for siphoning the sweet stuff from the Federation of Quebec Maple Syrup Producers facility, reselling their bounty after refilling the Federation’s barrels with water.
Wading through this methodical morass of non-fiction could be a slog, but The Sticky is like a satisfying short stack of crime-comedy entertainment, adapting and transforming its nutty story into six swift half-hour episodes. Unlike my sweet, cakey brunch enemy, it’s deliciously digestible, then. And unlike maple syrup, it’s anything but slow-moving.
The cold open starts things off in media res, and exactly how you’d hope: with cops discovering a corpse submerged in a barrel of the golden-brown gunk, his La Cucaracha ringtone heard from within the gloop alerting them to the gooey body. Then we meet heroic syrup farmer Ruth, who we quickly love because she’s played with curmudgeonly charm by Margo Martindale.
A tough broad left to tap her trees alone while husband Martin remains in a comatose state, Ruth won’t take the news that the oppressive syrup federation has confiscated her business licence lying down. Martindale barks back at the bureaucrats trying to stop her operation (“Je parle francais, stupid!”) and wraps up the pilot by spitefully driving one of her maple trees through the doors of the fat cats’ head office. It’s going down, she’s yelling timber, etc.
Martindale imbues her protagonist with more than enough brass to get us invested, but she can’t wreak her vengeance alone. Any good heist needs a solid team, and The Sticky’s bumbling syrup-snatchers are a perfectly-balanced trio, their sights set on stealing the federation’s multi-million dollar harvest for themselves. Ruth is the righteous fire that fuels their scheme; Chris Diamantopoulos is the brawn as risky crook Mike; and Guillaume Cyr is the heart, in the form of French-Canadian security guard and man-on-the-inside Remy.
Each of the three sides brings their own weaknesses and desperation to the criminal plot, illuminating each performer’s distinct comic skill-set. There’s plenty of physical comedy for the versatile Diamantopoulos to sink his teeth into, forced to hilariously wrangle barrels like a suited-up Donkey Kong. And Cyr’s Remy is more than a little reminiscent of Clint Eastwood’s Richard Jewell—a bumbling wannabe hero desperate to prove themselves who nevertheless gets caught on the wrong side of the law they revere so much.
The Sticky plays fast and loose with the actual details of the case it’s adapting, wearing the influences of Fargo’s oh-gosh alpine black comedy most obviously in a title card that opens each episode by warning us that “this is absolutely not the true story of the Great Canadian Maple Syrup Heist”. The series flagrantly ignores reality in this way, instead concocting imagined yet strong characters who it can manipulate into that tense, climactic burglary.
What does feel authentic is the show’s setting, of flannel-wearing small-town thugs soundtracked by French-language covers of Cher, Bob Dylan and Elvis. Tensions between the rural, traditional way of things and the seductive glamour of criminal intrigue come naturally, allowing each character’s unique arc to flourish within. In particular, Ruth’s persistent faith that her husband might wake up at any moment, and expect his business and humble home life to be waiting for him, burns in the background as the high stakes that we come to care about as fiercely as she does.
Amongst the producers of the show are horror juggernaut Blumhouse and one Jamie Lee Curtis, who puts in a barnstorming, intimidating one-episode cameo just when it seems our misfit thieves couldn’t handle a single extra obstacle. There’s nothing horrifying about the drama here, but there’s certainly a masterful, old-school thriller momentum as feds and local cops close in.
We’re told that French-Canada’s prized maple syrup is an alchemic blend of tree sap and sugar, and The Sticky is indeed a tasty combination of natural elements—being a corker of a true crime tidbit, and the cast’s established talents—and some sweetness. Pivotally, though, it won’t rot your teeth, maintaining a folksy, sweary, funny grit throughout. You might even be left with some room for another bite, as the season’s final moments suggest more syrupy forkfuls could be on their way soon.
