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Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo Review by
Joe Barlow
Deuce
Bigalow: Male Gigolo
tips its hand from the moment the theater lights go down. In the first two
minutes of the film, all of the following events occur: (a) our protaganist
appears, nude, in a public aquarium, thereby allowing us a glimpse at his bare
bottom; (b) an old lady falls down a flight of steps; and (c) a young lady's
t-shirt gets wet, exposing... well, the fact that she's not wearing any
undergarments, for starters. Most bad films take at least ten minutes to reveal
their wretchedness, so give the movie credit for revealing its complete lack of
intelligence up front. At least this way the audience develops no expectation of
quality or entertainment value.
One doesn't
walk into a film titled Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo expecting to see high
art, of course, but this film takes the concept of potty humor to a whole new
level, doing for used condoms and flatulance what Monty Python did for Spam and
wafer-thin mints. Imagine There's Something About Mary, with the hair-gel
scene stretched to 80 minutes, and all the other parts excised. Deuce
Bigalow (Rob Schneider) is a friendly fish expert / pool man / aquarium cleaner,
who finds himself apartment-sitting for Antoine (Oded Fehr), a wealthy neighbor
who's leaving for a European vacation. Antoine (who desperately wants to be
Antonio Banderas, it seems) is a gigolo, and very good at his job. He's so good,
in fact, that his phone hardly ever stops ringing. After Deuce inadvertently
destroys much of Antoine's apartment, he passes himself off as a gigolo to earn
some much-needed money for homestead repairs. The problem: Deuce isn't very good
at gigolo-ing. However, he discovers that by simply spending quality time with
his customers, he is able to simultaneously improve their self-esteem and earn
the money he needs to fix up Antoine's apartment before he returns. Along the
way, we'll have the opportunity to witness the many tender farts, burps, and
pratfalls he shares with these ladies. I have no
problem with raunchy humor if it's used for a purpose. This film, however, seems
to think that it's enough to simply throw raunchiness on the screen regardless
of context, and that laughter will automatically follow; as such, no thought has
gone into the screenplay, the pacing, the performances, or the direction. Every
gag develops so predictably, with absolutely no surprises, that one wonders why
they even bothered to film the punchlines. For example, after Deuce
inadvertently shatters Antoine's aquarium, our hero rescues Antoine's prize fish
and stores it in the blender. Take a wild guess as to what eventually happens to
it. All the other jokes are equally transparent. My favorite
flaw in the film, however, is its schizophrenia. On one hand, the director's
message seems to be, "Don't laugh at those who are different from you,
because they're people too, with feelings and dreams of their own." At the
same time, the film paints everyone who's not young, white and attractive as a
total nincompoop, good for nothing but fodder for cruel humor, which we're
supposed to find hilarious. A few of the groups targeted by this piece of
excrement: the elderly, amputees, the obese, the blind, the exceedingly tall,
sufferers of Tourette's syndrome, the homosexual, and many others. The effect
seems to be done not so much for comedic effect as simple sadism. No one with
any degree of maturity could find any of these medical conditions remotely
funny, but boy, the filmmakers (including executive producer Adam Sandler) sure
do. When it tires of laughing at disabilities, the story fills itself with
meaningless sex talk. An actual line of dialogue: "Our man-ginas are
what we professionals call our man-pussies." I love the double
standard of the film's message: "Everyone is a person, and deserves to have
friends; however, if they're not young and white, they'll probably have to pay
for the privilege of said companionship." It's quite
revealing that most of the other folks who attended this screening appeared to
share my opinion of it. I believe that I, at the age of twenty-six, was the
oldest person in the theater. Most of the other viewers appeared to be white
males in their mid-teens, assumedly the film's target audience. Most laughed
just as often as I did--which is to say, not at all. The only
factor that saves Deuce Bigalow from a zero star rating is its
brevity--the film is well under 90 minutes in length, making it no more painful
to endure than a typical root canal, and it's cheaper, too. On the other hand,
banging your head against the wall for an hour and a half will yield much the
same result, and hey, that's free. I've seen plenty of bad movies in my life,
but this is the only one that ever made me want to take a shower after screening
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