The Christmas Coal in Your Stocking

In a season full of holiday confections, "Little Fockers" is a two liter bottle of Castor Oil.

Hollywood does it again.  The assholes out here can't leave well enough alone.  They strike comedic paydirt with "Meet the Parents."  Thinking there's a lot more gold to be mined, they do the sequel "Meet the Fockers," which was dreadful.  The third installment "Little Fockers" is even worse and might be the unfunniest comedy ever made.  I sat there stonefaced like Buster Keaton for ninety interminable minutes.  I got more laughs watching Ted Kennedy's funeral, but that's just me.

Sadly, Hollywood can't get into their numb skulls that initial success in a movie doesn't necessarily mean there are more stories to told about those characters.  Oh, sure, the mindless twenty-year-old will show up on opening weekend of any piece of crap, especially if it's got the second or twelfth sequel.  But, you don't need a health insurance plan that allows for brain surgery to know that most tales are tapped out the first time around. 

That was the case for "Meet the Parents."  While clever and amusing, I knew right from the get-go that there was no juice left in the dysfunctional dynamic between the hapless Greg Focker and his sociopathic father-in-law.  Done and done.  Yet, producers keep going to the farm where they try to milk a dead cow. 

For the second movie, they try to raise the comedic ante by including Dustin Hoffman and Barbra Streisand as the other set of in-laws.  The only problem is the writers forgot to give them something to do.  In "Meet The Fockers," the inclusion of Hoffman and Big Mouth Babs was akin to somebody inviting Bobby Flay and Emeril Lagasse over to your house to cook and then asking them to microwave a couple of Lean Cuisines.

As soon as I heard there would be a "Little Fockers," I expected very little.  Frankly, had I not been invited to a free screening with free popcorn, free Diet Coke, and free parking, I had zero interest in seeing it. 

And, after 90 or so minutes, I, too, was freed. 

There are so few laughs in this movie that I needed to doublecheck the advance press to make sure that the script hadn't been adapted from a short story by Sylvia Plath.  There is nothing in this film that remotely works and I began to wonder if somebody had actually turned a camera on Obama's stimulus plan.  Everything is that misguided.

In "Little Fockers," they flesh out the cast even further with the added participation of Jessica Alba and the returning Owen Wilson.  Several years back, Wilson tried to commit suicide and perhaps he's having those thoughts again.  Frankly, after seeing his work here, I don't have a better solution for him.  In this third chapter, the producers have added new settings, new characters, new kids, and an iguana in an attempt to throw as much on the wall as possible.  Nothing sticks. 

Ben Stiller and Robert DeNiro continue as the leads, mostly likely because both are planning expensive home renovations planned.  DeNiro, in particular, needs to call it an acting career.  He now plays every role, whether it be drama or comedy, as if he's working behind the counter in an Italian bakery.  Regardless of the quality of the script, DeNiro will work for pennies.  I doubt if he even uses an agent anymore.  It seems like his script coverage is provided by a bunch of four-year-olds at a Tribeca pre-school.

And, along with stashing Bobby D up in a corner of the attic, can we also please retire forever Hollywood's persistence to make running gags out of erectile dysfunction products?  Viagra-like drugs are now the official crutch of mentally barren scriptwriters.  Those jokes were funny the first one hundred films they were used in.  The next one thousand?  Not so much.

The bloated Miss Barbra is back and, floating around whale-like in a caftan, she appears to be in search of a canasta game.  Again, she's given nothing to do.  Dustin Hoffman shows up in the first and last reels of the movie.  Originally, he had opted out of doing this movie, but somebody made him reconsider at the last minute.  I am guessing that agent is now working a stock room at the Home Depot.

Sitting in the movie audience that showed even less emotion than Mount Rushmore, I knew there would be no big laughs.  I decided aim lower and count the mere giggles and titters.  By the movie's conclusion, I still had four fingers left on one hand.  The crowd exited silently as if they had all just recited the 23rd Psalm in Latin.

Rumor has it that there's a fourth Focker movie planned.  Still, that gives us enough time to write our local congressperson to prevent any future injustices presented to the innocent public.  But, if there's money to be made, Hollywood will try it.

And, in the end, we are all focked.

Dinner last night: A wonderful post holiday meal at the home of good friends Leo and Connie.  Pulled pork, mashed potatoes, green beans, salad, sauteed mushrooms, and cinnamon rolls.