Big Momma’s House 2
20th Century Fox
Starring: Martin Lawrence, Nia Long and Emily Procter
The Verdict: Big Momma’s House 2 fails in every facet of filmmaking, from sour acting to bad jokes to poor direction.
1 out of 4 stars
January may be an exciting month for awards watchers, but it’s tough going for film fans hoping to catch something fresh at their local megaplex. While loudly toasting the newly minted Oscar hopefuls of last year, studios also lower their heads and ring in the New Year by sneaking as many bombs into theaters as they can unload in the space of a month. Leading the pack this year is “Big Momma’s House 2,” a sequel that no one was clamoring for and, regrettably, no one can take back.
2000’s “Big Momma’s House” was a surprise smash, proving star Martin Lawrence could draw in crowds without Will Smith at his side. Lawrence played FBI agent Malcolm Turner, who went undercover in a wig and fat suit as the “Big Momma” of a sexy innocent (Nia Long) whose ex is the target of a stakeout. Martin got his man, the girl and probably a healthy bump in pay when it came time to sign the contracts for “Bad Boys II.”
Half a decade later, Lawrence is back for more of the same.
The plot this time, if one stoops to call it that, finds Agent Turner getting downgraded to a bureau desk job while adjusting to family life with his wife (Long again, slumming) and stepson. When he’s not shuffling papers for the P.R. department, he’s donning an eagle costume and visiting grade schools to preach household safety to auditoriums of screaming kindergarteners. Leave it to villains and a murder most foul to bring Turner out of semi-retirement.
When his former partner is killed on the job, Turner swears to bring those responsible to justice, with bureau sanction or without it. He overhears plans for surveillance by an undercover agent posing as a nanny, and if you don’t see where the movie’s headed at this point, then you’ve probably wandered into the wrong theater on your way to “Brokeback Mountain.”
This isn’t a film that wastes time on trifles like plot consistency or character development. After only 10 minutes, Lawrence is in full Big Momma regalia, sliding across floors, toppling off of a kitchen stool, and shouting at anyone who will listen about everything from nudism to the NAACP.
The sweet, outspoken Big Momma character coaxes out the softer, funnier sides of Lawrence’s usually manic screen persona. The actor and his alter ego are endearing even when the material is toxic.
The first “Momma” film drew water from the same gutter, but it had a more original premise and a genuinely amusing gallery of supporting players. Anthony Anderson and Paul Giamatti can take a clunker of a joke and still wring a laugh out of it. This time, however, there’s no one to take up the slack when Big Momma starts to wear out her welcome. The sequel tries to fill in the gaps with a new FBI partner for Malcolm and a prepubescent computer hacker; the former is just an idiot, the latter just a kid, and neither is good for a single groan, much less a chuckle.
Blame falls on screenwriter Don Rhymer who seems to have penciled in his script pages very lightly in the hopes that Lawrence could flesh out 90 minutes with sustained mugging and riffing. Martin’s good, but not that good. Scene after agonizing scene drags by, huffing and puffing, with nothing that comes close to inspiring a laugh.
There are strong set-ups-Big Momma goes to the beach, Big Momma coaches cheerleading, Big Momma goes to a bingo hall-without punch lines, or at least without relevant ones. References to Tupac and “Waiting to Exhale” might’ve had everyone rolling in the aisles five years ago, but today they seem stale and alarmingly out of touch. Sometimes Rhymer approaches a funny idea-for example, Big Momma cleans the living room with a leaf blower–but backs away before the joke has time to be funny. Big Momma’s trip to a women’s spa could have been memorably hilarious, but the scene just peters out with Lawrence mugging at half-naked supermodels and cannonballing into a bubbling vat of mud.
The humor aims repeatedly for the lowest common denominator. There are poop jokes, a drunk Chihuahua, a toddler eating a Brillo pad, a pointless detour to a Jewish temple, everything but the kitchen sink. Look out, everybody, Big Momma’s on a jet ski, isn’t that outrageous?
Many moments don’t even make sense. Malcolm, as Big Momma, privately complains of chafing from a thong, but he’s under innumerable layers of fat suit, so how could he possibly feel it? Another time, Malcolm says that a child’s diaper is dirty, a lie, so he can gain access to a suspicious character’s personal office. Somehow, though, when the scene is over, the diaper is miraculously dirty for real and, of course, gets slapped down with a squish in the open palm of an unsuspecting bad guy.
John Whitesell directs with the finesse of a bowling ball hammering into a crotch.
Watch closely during a club scene and see a roomful of extras standing still, some of them staring intently at the principals as they speak, others staring directly at the camera.
One of the film’s heartiest laughs is unintentional: an escaping bad guy leaps off a pier in one shot, and is replaced by what is very obviously a stunt dummy in the next.
It’s only late January, but this may well be the worst film you’ll see all year.
As Big Momma would say, “God don’t like ugly.” Neither do movie critics, Big Momma. Neither do movie critics.