Picture this: a dimly lit Los Angeles apartment, the kind where the rent is late and the dreams are overdue. A harried gig worker—let’s call him Arj—collapses onto a threadbare couch after another soul-crushing shift of delivering takeout and stocking shelves, his phone buzzing with notifications that promise “flexible hours” but deliver endless exhaustion. The city hums outside, a neon-lit beast indifferent to his plight, while up above, in some celestial cubicle of the afterlife, an angel named Gabriel watches with growing frustration. Gabriel isn’t your typical haloed harpist; he’s a low-level divine intern, stuck preventing texting-while-driving accidents, yearning for something with a bit more… purpose. And when he spots Arj as a “lost soul” teetering on the edge, he decides to intervene in the most audacious way possible: swapping Arj’s life with that of a clueless venture capitalist named Jeff, forcing both men to walk in each other’s ill-fitting shoes.

This is the delightfully daffy premise of Good Fortune, Aziz Ansari’s long-awaited directorial debut, a film that arrives like a breath of fresh, irreverent air in a year starved for comedies that dare to poke at the absurdities of modern life. And at its improbable heart? Keanu Reeves, the stoic action icon who’s dodged bullets in John Wick and pondered existential dread in The Matrix, now playing Gabriel—a bumbling, burger-loving angel who discovers the joys of chicken nuggets and the perils of human sweat. If you’d told me at the start of 2025 that Reeves would be the funniest guy in the room, delivering punchlines with the same earnest bewilderment he brought to Bill & Ted’s time-traveling antics, I’d have laughed it off as fan fiction. But here we are: Good Fortune proves that Reeves can mine gold from goofiness just as effortlessly as he dismantles henchmen, turning Ansari’s witty satire into a surprisingly soulful romp that lingers long after the credits roll.

Ansari, making a triumphant return to the big screen after a self-imposed hiatus following the 2018 scandal that nearly derailed his career, steps behind the camera with the confidence of someone who’s spent years honing his craft on Master of None and stand-up specials like Right Now. Co-writing the script with Alan Yang (his longtime collaborator), Ansari doesn’t just direct; he stars as Arj, a stand-in for every overworked millennial scraping by in the gig economy. The film opens with a kinetic montage of Arj’s daily grind: dodging traffic on a scooter, haggling with algorithm overlords for tips, crashing on a friend’s floor because rent ate his paycheck. It’s a portrait of quiet desperation painted in broad, empathetic strokes—think Nomadland meets Superbad, where the laughs come from recognition rather than ridicule.

Enter Gabriel, played by Reeves with a wide-eyed innocence that’s equal parts endearing and hilarious. Reeves, 61 and looking every bit the rumpled sage in a shabby trench coat and perpetual five-o’clock shadow, channels the doofus charm of his Bill & Ted days while layering in the weary wisdom from Parenthood. Gabriel’s “job” is mundane divine drudgery—zapping phones out of texting drivers’ hands—but when he fixates on Arj, he goes rogue, petitioning his boss Martha (a delightfully deadpan Sandra Oh) for a promotion to “fate intervention.” Demoted to human form as punishment, Gabriel tumbles to earth, landing in a world of fast food and fleeting pleasures. His first bite of a chicken nugget? A revelation that has Reeves mugging with childlike glee: “This is… crunchy joy!” It’s a moment that captures the film’s gentle absurdity, reminding us why Reeves endures as cinema’s most lovable everyman—he’s funny because he’s genuine, his bewilderment a mirror to our own.

The swap happens in a puff of celestial smoke: Arj wakes up in Jeff’s Malibu mansion, surrounded by infinity pools and indifferent staff, while Jeff (Seth Rogen, slumming it hilariously in sweatpants and despair) finds himself evicted and app-hopping. Rogen, ever the king of stoner philosophers, nails Jeff’s arc from oblivious opulence to eye-opening empathy. “I thought ‘gig economy’ meant free concerts,” he deadpans, fumbling a DoorDash order while Arj navigates boardrooms with the social grace of a deer in headlights. Ansari’s timing as Arj is pitch-perfect—awkward pauses pregnant with punchlines, his eyes darting like a man who’s just realized the emperor’s naked and he’s holding the mirror.

But it’s Reeves who elevates Good Fortune from solid ensemble comedy to something sneakily profound. As Gabriel navigates humanity’s messier edges—sweating through a kitchen job, chain-smoking Camels to cope with demotion, or awkwardly flirting at a dive bar—Reeves uncovers layers of vulnerability beneath the laughs. There’s a scene midway through where Gabriel, high on his first milkshake, dances alone in a laundromat to a forgotten ’80s hit, his movements loose and liberated. It’s pure joy, a reminder of Reeves’s physical comedy chops from Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey, but laced with melancholy: an immortal being grappling with mortality’s fleeting freedoms. “Why do humans waste time on anger when there’s nugget heaven?” he muses to Arj, sparking a conversation that veers from slapstick to satire on corporate greed and class divides.

Ansari’s script, clocking in at a breezy 98 minutes, balances these tones with deft hand. Influenced by classics like Trading Places (the body-swap blueprint) and It’s a Wonderful Life (the angelic intervention), Good Fortune skewers the gig economy’s grind without preaching. Arj’s “flexible” life is a parade of humiliations—racing against traffic for a $2 tip, debating whether to eat or pay the electric bill—while Jeff’s wealth blinds him to the machinery beneath his yacht. When Arj, suddenly rich, splurges on absurd luxuries like a personal chef who quits mid-meal, Ansari mines hilarity from excess: “I ordered ethical caviar—turns out fish have feelings too.” Yet, beneath the gags lies a poignant query: What if fortune isn’t about money, but the connections we forge in its absence?

Keke Palmer steals every scene she’s in as Elena, Arj’s sharp-tongued neighbor and budding love interest, a barista moonlighting as a stand-up comic whose sets roast the very system trapping them. Palmer’s energy is electric—her banter with Ansari crackles with rom-com spark, while her monologues on “hustle culture” land like velvet-wrapped haymakers. “We’re all angels in disguise,” she quips during a late-night rooftop chat, “but some of us got the cheap wings.” Sandra Oh rounds out the heavenly hierarchy as Martha, Gabriel’s no-nonsense superior whose demotions come with a side of sarcasm: “You think fate’s a vending machine? Insert good deed, get miracle? Try again, intern.”

Filmed in Los Angeles from April to July 2024—Ansari’s first feature since the 2018 scandal that prompted his hiatus—the production buzzed with collaborative joy. Ansari, drawing from personal interviews with gig workers and stints shadowing delivery drivers, infused authenticity into Arj’s world. “I wanted laughs that hit home,” he told IndieWire at TIFF, where the film premiered to a standing ovation. “Keanu got it instantly—he’s lived that underdog life.” Reeves, nursing a knee injury from Ballerina, insisted on shooting his dance sequences anyway, limping through takes with trademark humility. Rogen improvised gold: his ad-libbed rant on “algorithm overlords” had the crew in stitches.

Critics have hailed Good Fortune as a breath of fresh air in a comedy landscape dominated by reboots and raunch. Rotten Tomatoes sits at 77% fresh, with the consensus praising “Aziz Ansari’s promising directorial debut, where Good Fortune’s socially-minded humor is given wings by Keanu Reeves’ heavenly comedic timing.” The New York Times called it “more cute than hilarious,” appreciating the social commentary but noting underdeveloped satire. IGN awarded an 8/10: “A witty, warm celestial comedy of errors that splendidly blends the wry world of the Frat Pack with the dopiness of Bill & Ted.” The Guardian was harsher, docking points for “rushed editing and one-joke characters,” but conceded Reeves’ “refreshing” turn steals the show. Variety lauded it as “clever but basic,” with Reeves’ “devilishly angelic” performance the standout.

What sets Good Fortune apart from Ansari’s past work—like the introspective Master of None or the scandal-tinged Right Now—is its unapologetic optimism. Where his stand-up often wallowed in millennial malaise, here he flips the script: Arj doesn’t just survive the swap; he thrives, using his brief wealth to expose systemic flaws without losing his soul. The film’s climax, a chaotic intervention at a high-society gala where Gabriel rallies misfits against the elite, feels like a love letter to underdogs everywhere. “It’s not about getting rich,” Ansari reflects in the press notes. “It’s about getting real—and maybe sharing a nugget along the way.”

Reeves’ Gabriel is the secret sauce, a character that allows the actor to flex muscles unused since Bill & Ted Face the Music. His wide-eyed wonder at human foibles—sweating profusely during a job interview, declaring tacos “divine intervention”—elicits belly laughs rooted in empathy. “Keanu’s not acting funny; he’s being Keanu,” Rogen joked at the premiere. In a meta twist, Gabriel’s “demotion” mirrors Reeves’ own career pivot from action god to comedic sage, proving the man who once saved the world can now save a script with a single bemused glance.

Good Fortune isn’t flawless—the third act rushes toward resolution, and some satirical jabs at wealth inequality feel surface-level—but its heart is pure gold. In a year of superhero fatigue and awards bait, Ansari delivers a comedy that’s smart, silly, and strangely uplifting. Keanu Reeves, the funniest guy in the room? Absolutely. And if this is 2025’s bingo wildcard, count me in for the full card. See Good Fortune in theaters now—it’s the laugh (and think) you didn’t know you needed.