Lost and Found
I don't know what I ate prior to this film, but I had really bad gas throughout. Normally, I would hold my discharges inside and pray not to explode in the middle of the film. However, it became readily apparent about ten minutes into this David Spade vehicle that by driving people from the theater with my smelly methane bombs, I was actually doing the audience a favor.
This is the first film where David Spade tries to carry things alone. He plays Dylan, a lonely restaurateur who just happens to fall in love with his neighbor, Lila (Sophie Marceau.) He steals her dog in order to meet and spend time with her, hoping that she might fall for him. Oh, please. I mean come on, this abrasive little man looks like a shaved white rabbit. The closest he's ever going to come to a live woman will be when she serves him with a restraining order. This is the type of movie that teachers show in Screenwriting 101 as an example of how to hit every possible cliché imaginable. Then they pass out the script as substitute toilet paper.
First off, the ability to tolerate David Spade's schtick is directly proportional to how long he's onscreen. A single scene with Spade is painful; after 100 minutes, I'm trying to gouge the eyes out of the nice old lady sitting next to me. With Chris Farley dead, the writers have inserted a sort of substitute Farley, presumably so Spade doesn't seem alone in the cold, dark world of comedy. Brrrr. This doesn't even begin to address the anguish of sitting through this film's sophomoric plot machinations, which sound like they were written on the back of a pizza box by Spade and his drunk, stoned high school buddies.
Lila has a rich French guy after her who's an asshole, so naturally the screenwriters fashion a scene where Lila explains that what she really wants out of life is an anemic punk like Spade. Let's face it, if actors were penises, Spade would be a narrow, stubby little protrusion that, when erect, couldn't create a bump in a pair of silk shorts. He ends up with Lila, despite stealing her dog and just being a dishonest little prick in general. But what more logical conclusion could be expected of a film which asserts that the answer to Sophie Marceau's prayers is a guy who makes Richard Simmons look manly?
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