Is there anything real about "Larry Crowne" other than the money I spent to see it? Probably not.
"Larry Crowne" attempts to romanticize that old dude who sits at the back of your community college art history class, the one wearing a polka-dot tie, horn-rimmed glasses and an enormous high school ring. You know, the guy that everyone avoids making eye contact with at the holiday party at the end of the year, and the man whose answers to every classroom question seem to have been dredged out of the Nixon era and sprinkled liberally with terms he doesn't understand overheard from the kid who sells him pot at the dog park on the weekends.
You've seen him. We've all seen him. And now we get to watch a movie about him. Have you ever wondered about the secret life of the 60-year old man who tries to cheat off of you in Economic 101? Of course you have. According to "Larry Crowne," it involves sleeping with Julia Roberts and attracting the attention of the resident campus Manic Pixie Dream Girl so that she can give him the kind of spiritual makeover that will bring him out of the Paleolithic era and introduce him to concepts like "manscaping" and "women voting."
Also, his neighbor is Cedric the Entertainer, who must be at least somewhat disturbed to know that the only reason he's getting these roles is because Bernie Mac is dead. Cedric runs a perpetual yard sale in a city where it never rains and where homeowner's associations are as limp and powerless as Hugh Hefner's aged penis. See what I did there? That's called topical humor. Because nothing is more topical than a re-animated millionaire's genitalia.
Is there anything real about "Larry Crowne" other than the money I spent to see it? Probably not. Star Tom Hanks also directed this interminable slice of life, his first movie since "That Thing You Do." I hope no one was holding their breath during that 15-year period waiting for Hanks to helm another major motion picture, because if so, well, I'm sure someone's found your lifeless, decomposed body by now. If not a human, at least your cat. Or cats, plural. In fact, I'd wager that an entire feline society has sprung up in the lonely apartment that contains your corpse, with monuments built out of your incomplete Adult Ed calculus homework and that weird macaroni sculpture you made in Anthropology that no one understand. Well, sometimes genius goes unrecognized.
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