Review Copyright Rose Cooper, 2000

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The Diva, in her Me, Myself, & Irene review, was far too kind. This movie wasn't just bad; it was Ugly. Butt Ugly. THE STORY (WARNING: **spoilers contained below**) Charlie (Jim Carrey), a mild-mannered Rhode Island motorcycle cop, stands by while the world walks over him, especially his two-timing wife Layla (Traylor Howard), who cheats on him with Chante Jackson (Tony Cox), the Black chaufuer at his wedding. Even when his "triplet" kids, Jamaal (Anthony Anderson), Lee Harvey (Mongo Brownlee), and Chante Jr (Jerod Mixon) come out looking remarkably more like Chante than him, Charlie just grins and bears it - until Layla leaves him and Charlie eventually snaps into two personalities: his mild, sexually-repressed self, and "Hank", the angry, sexually-hungry, (and no longer) suppressed side of him that Charlie "buried" inside when Layla ditched him. Something-or-other about a dirt-dumb subplot involving Irene (Renee Zellweger), the target of Charlie and Hank's affection, and bad cop Lt. Gerke (Chris Cooper) and embezzlement at a golf course, ensues, and...sorry, I can't be arsed to describe anything else about this inane movie. I'd really like to forget it ever happened, actually. THE UPSHOT Going into this flick, I of course knew it was a Farrelly Brothers production - and what that exactly meant. Shakespeare, it ain't; I can dig that. And though I avoided There's Something About Mary like the plague, I understood well in advance that the gross factor would be high in Irene. "Gross", I could deal with. "Jackass Stupid" and "Unreasonably Meanspirited", however, pisses me off to no end. Irene has no redeeming factors, or at least, those that might bring it up from the sewer it occupies, are so damn subtle and underplayed that I spent more time getting irritated by the grating music, the illogical plotline [whoever came up with the Bad Turf Manager idea, needs their butt whupped. Now.], the foolishly empty characters, the bad acting, Zellweger's nails-on-a-blackboard voice, and the crappy "special effects" [that cow looked like a reject from the "Jaws" mechanical animals pile] than in noticing any semblance of good within its l-o-n-g reels of film [two bloody hours? WHAT WERE THEY THINKING? Oops. Forgot.] The sound of silence - in the theater, and from the screen in between moments of Slapstick Hijinx - was deafening. And remember, this was allegedly a comedy. Oops. The only tolerable thing about this whole movie - Jim Carrey's amazingly agile body and the way he can contort it - was tempered by the knowledge that he's Been There/Done That before; the child's play has played out, bub. All the Clint Eastwood voice-channelling in the world can't make up for the fact that Carrey has quickly become a one-trick pony, recycling the same characterization over and over, ad nauseum. I kept thinking to myself, "He gets paid $20 mil for this? Where do I sign up for Clown Lessons???". Even the Rhode Island scenery was marred by the thuddingly foolish decision by the directors to have Charlie covered by bugs when he motored through the countryside on his Harley Electra Glide Police Special. Having just recently taken a cross-country trip on the back and front of an Electra Glide, I'd complain about the fact that That Just Wouldn't Happen, but since the balance of this film wouldn't, either, what's the point? Wasted potential grinds my gizzards. Recycled waste served up as a fresh dish, causes me to paint Yellow lights, Red. I want that two hours of my life, refunded to me, dammit. THE "BLACK FACTOR"    [ObDisclaimer: We Are Not A Monolith] In this day and age of so-called Political Correctness (about as stoopid a term as "colorblindness"), one must be careful not to get ones hackles raised when the group with which one closely affiliates - be it Blacks, women, paraplegics, Catholics, World War II vets, soccer moms, what have you - is targeted in a flick like Irene. The thin-skinned amongst us might be read'ta take up arms, crosses, bazookas, what have you, to protest Those Bad People Who Made Fun Of Us. Me, I don't consider myself all that thin-skinned. So when much fun was made of Chante and the chip on his shoulder for being Black, a chauffeur, and a dwarf, I barely batted an eye [but, take note, Farrelly bros: Chante is a girl's name, ka peach?] When that ho Layla tongued (ewww) Chante right in front of Charlie, I almost lost my lunch, but my temper was intact. Even the "one-drop rule" joke made of Charlie's "triplet" (uh huh) sons, elicited not much more than a roll of my big brown eyes. But when the brothers Farrelly implied that the only thing Charlie's smart, Black sons got out of watching Richard Pryor, was the ability to toss around cuss words like lettuce in a salad...well, them's fightin' words, buster. BAMMER'S BOTTOM LINE The question is begged: is Jim Carrey a grossly overpaid but Misunderstood Clown with a Lucille Ball-like gift for physical humor (and little else) - or does he just have an unholy fixation with his ass? ME, MYSELF & IRENE:   back to top And that's the way I see it. Rose "Bams" Cooper 3BlackChicks Review™ Copyright Rose Cooper, 2000 EMAIL: bams@3blackchicks.com    ICQ: 7760005 http://www.3blackchicks.com/