reviews

Could it be? With a duo like lovely continental Pierce Brosnan and classy dame Julianne Moore, and now this urbane opening, could it be that we’re in for something luscious and screwball and scrumptiously old-fashioned, Cary Grant meets Katharine Hepburn in the 21st century?

Quandung physics is the only possible rationalization for the fact that scripts like this one — with no drama, no comedy, no conflict, and not a single likeable character — get produced. But it is, literally, full of shit, and there’s nothing that sells like toilet humor, so perhaps the thinking was, The more shit, the better. I’ve never seen so much actual shit onscreen, along with the figurative shit. The movie reeks of it. You couldn’t possibly eat popcorn or candy or anything during this film, because all the doody will turn your stomach.

You won’t stop expecting Tom Hanks to jump in and dance out ‘Chopsticks’ on the big flat piano on the floor, and there’s even a party scene in which you can just about glimpse him in the background, in his hilariously inappropriate white tails, nibbling a miniature corncob. Cuz it’s *Big* — it is. And even for Hollywood, where originality is low on the list of priorities and stealing is fair game, this fluffball of a flick tries its damnedest to be so blatant in its theft that you can’t believe they got away with it.

You promised me, [blacked out], you miserable fuck, you promised me a decent script and some good action and maybe a little onscreen nookie. And when I got to the set and saw the 15th rewrite of the script — WTF? serenading assassins? torturing bad guys with popsicles? — and met my costar — John fucking Travolta?? — and called you to complain you said Don’t worry, they’ll fix it all in post. And like a stupid fuck I believed you. I forgave you when you saddled me with *Dreamcatcher* and I even forgave you when you “lobbied” for me for *The Sweetest Thing* but this was supposed to be my big break, my chance to be a star, and now I’m a laughingstock.

It’s just like *Uptown Girls,* where Dakota Fanning gets a new nanny and her life just gets turned upside-down topsy-turvy wacky. Except that this takes place in that battlefield of class warfare, Mexico City, where pretty little white girls get kidnapped for ransom, and not on the Upper East Side, where you get a free pretty little white girl with every purchase from Manolo Blahnik.

David Duchovny, why won’t you love me? I love you, and not just because you’re the best thing in *Connie and Carla* even if your devastating intelligence and wry wit is nowhere to be found and all we’re left with is that amazing smile. And even *that’s* not onscreen anywhere near enough.

‘I’ve thumbs-downed a hell of a lot of movies to get to this point,’ she purrs. ‘I’ve been on what the movie geeks refer to as a roaring rampage of reviewing. But that’s nothing to what I’m gonna do now. Now, I am gonna trash *Bill.*’

Now, my travels in Texas are limited to two stopovers in Dallas-Forth Worth Airport barely long enough to run the 18 miles to the other side of the airport to catch my connecting flight. But I’d bet good money anyway that there’s a statue — maybe in Houston, maybe in San Antonio — of Sam Houston on a rearing horse with his sword drawn and held high in the air, looking all inspiring and ready for battle and just about to yell ‘Remember the Alamo!’

I’m sure every movie critic gets this at some point: ‘How can you sit through all the crap?’ I can’t speak for all critics, obviously, but for me, even the crap is fun. A bad day at the movies is better than a good day doing almost anything else. There are movies that try that dictum, though, and *Ella Enchanted* is one of them.

I guess the idea is that if a hitman nicknamed “The Tulip” is (theoretically) amusing, then a retired hitman nicknamed “The Tulip” who’s gone domestic and loves vacuuming the house in bunny slippers must be (at least theoretically) downright freakin’ hilarious. Would that it were so. Even more tedious than its predecessor, this mob “comedy” … more…