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My kindergarten teacher used to say, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” And a good friend recently advised that I need to stop sounding so negative all the time. So let me straightaway offer a positive comment about the first movie Martin Lawrence made after recovering from that coma he slipped into last August while jogging around heat-stricken Hollywood wearing a sweatsuit: the soundtrack features one of the coolest instrumentals from the rockabilly era, “The Nutrocker,” by B. Bumble & the Stingers.
Uhhh…that’s all I can think of.
Having created a slew of characters in his own right (as seen in his defunct Fox sitcom), Lawrence beats Eddie Murphy’s Nutty Professor sequel out of the box with a story about FBI agent Malcolm Turner, martial arts expert and master of disguise (jeez, if the guy did windows too I’d marry him). His latest case is tracking down a murderous robber (Terence Howard, from The Best Man) who escapes from prison presumably to collect $2 million in unrecovered bank loot. The killer’s former girlfriend Sherry (Nia Long), fearing for her life and possibly carrying the missing cash, flees to the home of her outrageously rotund, fleshy grandmother in smalltown Georgia. But when Big Momma unexpectedly leaves to care for a sick friend, Turner dons prodigious mounds of latex and padding to take her place.
Too bad that’s about as developed as the story gets. Big Momma’s House is nothing more than a bunch of embarrassingly unfunny, lowbrow set pieces – Big Momma tries to cook, Big Momma attends a self-defense class, Big Momma testifies in church, Big Momma plays basketball, Big Momma eats too many stewed prunes* – with less plot than one of those “Did You Know?” trivia cards from a box of Cracker Jack. You might find it bearable if your own personal universe includes a soft spot for overweight drag comedies -- Some Like It Fat. But over the course of two hours I perceived less entertainment value than in the latest Volvo commercial, and when it was over had an overpowering urge to go Sam’s and jump in an institutional-sized barrel of Lysol. D-
*I’m not one for suggesting government involvement in the film industry, but am getting more sympathetic to the idea of requiring filmmakers to get a federal permit before building a scene around any kind of gastric discharge. No joke, if this runaway trend toward runaway bowels doesn’t abate, I’m going to lobby the MPAA to add another rating: “PB-8 – No one admitted without 8 ounces of Pepto Bismol.”
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