New Levels of Dumb

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Posted June 19, 2008 in Film

Mike Myers’ lowest catastrophe is a paramount test of enlightenment. Smiling beatifically during each painfully unfunny gag demands more inner-strength than jogging through lava or fasting on pine needles. Among the atrocities, Myers flosses his colon, shoves his head in his ass, has a broken pool cue shoved in his ass (and sniffs it), has a urine-soaked mop sloshed across his chest (and sniffs it), and most stomach-churningly of all, kisses Jessica Alba. By this point, the unlobotomized have concluded that there is no beauty in the universe—or at least no director able to steer Mike Myers—comedy’s ghastly imp—from prancing about in an elephant-shaped chastity belt. (This one, Marco Schnabel, doesn’t even try.)  

 

Mrs. Alba’s never been given any credit as an actress, but that she does a fair job of widening her eyes and beaming at the fantasy of unlocking his withered, virginal pachyderm argues she should be considered for the next production of Hedda Gabler. And then there’s Verne Troyer, box office poison, whose presence in a film signifies its utter laziness. As yet another one of his mean midgets, his jokes all revolve around being dismissed as shrimp, Frodo, Munchkin, and other such witticisms highlighting the fact that his character is—in case you hadn’t noticed—really, really short. Having pillaged their thesauruses, Myers and co-writer Graham Gordy give Troyer nothing to do but grimace and get hit in the face. You’d feel sorry for the 39-year-old performer if he either A) cared, B) could act, or C) wasn’t grimacing all the way to the bank. (He famously told Howard Stern that he only bags 10s.) 

 

Despite—or because—having little to do, Romany Malco and Meagan Good acquit themselves admirably as the estranged hockey couple destined to be reunited by Myers’ Guru Pitka, an orphan raised in Harenmahkeester and mentored by Gurus Satchabigknoba (Omid Djalili), Tugginmypuddha and Hathasmalvena (Ben “Gandhi” Kingsley—for serious). Justin Timberlake as a French-Canadian goalie is given a bit more development: He loves Celine Dion and has a huge cock. If the whole film was Timberlake shaking it in a Speedo to Quebec’s chanteuse, it’d qualify for sainthood.  Instead, it stinks like sulphur. (Amy Nicholson)

 


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