A Thin Line Between Love and Hate
This is the kind of film that makes you count the number of lights in the theater's ceiling (mine had eleven).
My biggest laugh from Martin Lawrence's new film came while reading the description in the press notes describing it as a "comedic-thriller." The only thrill I got from the film was from bouncing up and down on my chair, wondering if a spring would break, fly up my ass and rip out my heart on the way to my brain. This is the kind of film that makes you count the number of lights in the theater's ceiling (mine had eleven) and debate whether or not you should kick the person in front of you in the back of the head just to see some action.
Darnell Wright (Lawrence) is a ladies' man who uses the wrong lady, Brandi Web (Lynn Whitfield) and finds himself the target of revenge. While this is a seriously cliched and unoriginal plot idea, it only comprises the last fifteen minutes of the film. The other hour-and-a-half is a god-awful mish-mash showcasing the "talents" of Martin Lawrence the director, Martin Lawrence the story creator and Martin Lawrence the screenwriter. Martin Lawrence, the director, is apparently trying to convince somebody in the universe that being an idiot and being a filmmaker have some symbiotic relationship. Martin Lawrence, the actor, speaks most of his lines like he's got pieces of dental gauze lodged in his back teeth and it's hard to tell whether he's trying to be funny or intentionally incoherent.
Mere words cannot fully describe how bad this film is, but if you'd like to watch a close facsimile, here's my recommendation: Take an underwater camera and stick it at the bottom of a toilet in a busy public restroom in New York City's Grand Central Station. Film for an hour-and-a-half, watch the results and you'll have a good idea what it feels like to sit through this movie.
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