In a stunning admission, 20th Century Fox disclosed the controversy was deliberately engineered to boost opening weekend box office since every schizophrenic counts as two or more people. Added a Fox spokesperson, “Thank God the last of the Thorazine was tossed like rice at the wedding of Billy Bob and Angelina Jolie.”
Speaking of Billy Bob and Angie, Fox describes Me, Myself & Irene as a “romantic farce,” and man-oh-man it’s one zany gag after another.
Jim has split-personality disorder – he’s two people in one, like a 20 million dollar Certs. Jim’s Jekyll is mild-mannered Charlie and his Hyde is scumball Hank, who looks and sounds like a piss-angry Clint Eastwood, Dirty Harry-style. It doesn’t take much to warm up old Hank: “Omnipresence,” he says, “I like that in a woman.”
Jim does a post-coital pee like a lawn sprinkler demonically possessed by Alanis Morissette. And that’s side-by-side with a Vince Foster joke! You’re probably asking ” Vince who?” As I was chuckling I noticed little bubble-clouds filled with question marks form over everyone’s head. The guy behind me couldn’t decide whether to call his lifeline or poll the audience.
Only two people could cook up this stuff – that dynamic moviemaking duo who’ve sprayed almost as many body fluids on the big screen as you’ll find on the fresh-cleaned bedspread at the Holiday Inn.
Yes, it’s those wacky, comically deranged Farrelly brothers, Peter and Bobby. And these boys are are no strangers to split personalities, what with There’s Something About Mary on one hand and Outside Providence (which should have stayed within city limits) on the other. But damn if these guys don’t have a knack for low-brow humor with an Ivy League edge.
After all, it’s not every movie that mixes a chicken up the butt with silly-smart lines like “Enrico Fermi would roll over in his mother-f***in’ grave!”
And Co-star Renée Zellweger is so cute she should come shrink-wrapped with her own dream house and a sister named “Skipper.” When Cameron Diaz went off to get distressingly rail-thin and scarier than a brain-eating zombie, Renée filled in as a tough yet perky-nosed cookie.
But this time, “there’s something about Carrey,” baby. Even when he’s battling his wedding limo driver, a slap-happy mini-guy who itches for a fight and swings his baton like he’s Jet Li-lliputian.
Everyone’s favorite tweaked military dad, American Beauty‘s Chris Cooper, chases Jim and Renée across fly-spattered highways. He’s a dirty cop on the make or the take or something like that. Chris is partnered with some 80′s-looking guy who’s the missing link between humanity and the Michael Nouri “Flashdance” fan club, where the motto is “Hair by Buttafuoco.”
I’m glad Me, Myself & Irene doesn’t get me down, like Titan A.E. does That’s the movie where Earth blows up, thus solving that Napster problem once and for all in the final act of music industry vengeance. In space, it seems, no one can hear you stream.
Me, Myself & Irene is par for the Farrelly course, and it’s very funny stuff. From the opening narration (which sounds like an eerie sampling from some 60′s Disney live-action movie featuring Fess Parker and a pack of beavers) to the predictably satisfying romantic conclusion, this is a movie that will tickle every one of your personalities and the perky-nosed doll who loves them.