Review: Grown Ups

In a typically highbrow moment near the midpoint of Grown Ups, a character falls face-first into a pile of poop.

This moment, one of too many like it, is an apt metaphor for my experience watching this movie. A howlingly awful mess even by summer goofball comedy standards, Grown Ups (which opens today in wide release) may be, dare I say, the worst film I've ever seen.

You read that right: Grown Ups may be the worst film I've ever seen. If this sounds like an exaggeration, it isn't. I know whereof I speak, having suffered through many a horrid film, from the infamous classics (Plan 9 from Outer Space, Attack of the Killer Tomatoes!, and Ishtar) to the too-lame-to-be-infamous dreck that sullies the multiplexes year after year (there are many, but Porky’s II: The Next Day, Rocky III, and The Towering Inferno come to mind). I can assure you that Grown Ups holds its own against the worst of them. It really is that bad.

Before I continue with what promises to be a thoroughly excoriating review (don't say I didn't warn you), let me explain that I totally get the point of films like Grown Ups. They aren't meant to break new cinematic ground, impress critics or other members of the reality-based culturally elite, be the high point of anyone's career, or win awards. No, they're meant to entice the escapism-seeking masses into theaters with the allure of big stars and promises of endless fart jokes and mild titillation. Like so many mindless, lighter-than-air comedies before it, Grown Ups has no artsy pretenses, and I don't fault it for that. The world certainly needs a good dose of escapist nonsense every now and then.

But really now, Adam Sandler, Chris Rock, et al: You're capable of so much better than this unfathomably idiotic and criminally unfunny exercise in cinematic debasement. Grown Ups could have been a sexy and funny romp, but it's so chock full of tired sight gags, lame breastfeeding jokes, septuagenarian flatulence, and leeringly misogynistic stereotyping that even repeated sightings of Salma Hayek's cleavage can't save it.

The film's alleged story deserves no more than a sentence or two of description, so here is perhaps the briefest synopsis I'll ever write in a review: Five childhood friends (clumsily played by Sandler, Rock, Kevin James, David Spade and Rob Schneider) reunite as adults for the funeral of their beloved high-school basketball coach. They spend a Fourth of July weekend at a lake house with their families, and hijinks and hilarity ensue (that is, except for the hilarity part).

Hanging on this creaky framework are endless rehashings of sophomoric 1980s summer camp comedy clichés, including a character on a rope swing crashing into a tree, men drooling over a hot girl in short-shorts (she's bending over, but you knew that), and rampant pool-peeing. Enhancing this festival of retro-lameness are supposed jokes about bulimia, lazy eye, prostate enlargement and obesity, along with cringe-inducing attempts at ethnic humor. At one point, Hayek's character is referred to as a "spicy quesadilla." You know – because she's a sexy Latina, and Latinas eat quesadillas! I'm surprised that Rock's slightly effeminate African-American character isn't referred to as a "limp-wristed watermelon," but I guess this wouldn't make sense because watermelons don't have wrists, or even arms. Also, it would be homophobic and racist.

Then again, not all is sadness and despair in this carnival of comic failure: Those who appreciate the naked human form (and who doesn't?) may enjoy the brief glimpse of Spade's bare ass. (The press screening announcement promised "some male rear nudity," and the film indeed delivered on this count, if on nothing else.) Fortunately, the image is fleeting, and Spade's gluteus maximus isn't the hellishly unphotogenic sight it could be. Please join me in being thankful for this small gesture of mercy in an otherwise mercilessly awful film.

As for female nudity, it may shock you to learn that there isn't any. Of course, Grown Ups is awash in bikini-clad babes. (Without them, what else would the male characters do? Discuss the merits of financial regulation versus laissez-faire economic policy?) But alas, amid all the exquisitely tanned and toned flesh is a total absence of asses and nary a nipple. Never mind that Grown Ups isn't funny; this regrettable -- nay, inexcusable! -- lack of gratuitous female nudity is by far the film's greatest sin.

One more thought on nudity, or lack thereof: I'm anxiously awaiting the day when Hollywood realizes that the comically ironic display of naked male backsides is no longer comic nor ironic, and we all can return to the glorious halcyon days of glorious bare boobs in our lowbrow movies. (Note to Hollywood: I think the law of diminishing returns on male nudity kicked in last summer with Zach Galifianakis in The Hangover. I dare you to watch that footage and tell me I'm wrong.)

Anyway, at this point in a film review I usually mention something about the acting. But it's exceedingly difficult to discuss the acting in Grown Ups, because like female nudity and actual humor, there really isn't any. The five male leads mug their way through every scene and yell juvenile insults at a frenetic pace, as if the louder-and-faster approach will make the inane dialogue seem smarter and funnier. Whenever they run out of trash talk, they attempt physical comedy; a scene where James prances around with an empty fried chicken bucket on his head is particularly memorable. (That is, in the same sense that the worst date you've ever had is memorable.)

The female leads (Hayek, Maria Bello, Maya Rudolph and Joyce Van Patten) are talented and respected actresses, and I had hoped their presence would bring a glimmer of artistry to the proceedings. But they fare no better, mostly due to the hackneyed script. They phone in lines that are, you know, stuff women talk about, feigning personal growth and pretending that their family-friendly epiphanies about motherhood and marriage actually make sense, even though they happen for no apparent reason. Despite all this halfhearted and pointless sentimentality, I do wish these women had more screen time, if only so the men would have less.

The Grown Ups press screening I attended also was a free sneak preview for the public, and the house was nearly full. The crowd obviously disagreed with my take on the film, laughing uproariously at every dumb joke and pratfall and applauding when the credits finally rolled after an excruciating 102 minutes. At risk of sounding terribly elitist, their reactions reminded me that Grown Ups is indeed meant for them, not for snooty, self-important critics like me. But I can't help thinking that they would have enjoyed a smart and original screwball comedy just as much, and I wish Hollywood would challenge audiences a little more instead of always playing down to the lowest common denominator.

Or if this is too much to ask, at least show us some breasts.

Austin Connections: None, for which Austin should be grateful.