cancer) and Lauren has two hyperactive young teen sons (her husband cheated on her and left). Isn’t it perfect (poetic, even) that Jim has all girls and Lauren two boys? Isn’t it a hoot that her job is organizing closets or that big ole obtuse dad Jim drags his daughters to the barber to get made up like men? And isn’t it a riot that the older son keeps referring to his mom as a hottie?
"Together for the third time, Sandler and Barrymore arent exactly Fred Asraire and Ginger Rogers"
The plot is as non-existent as the comedy. Once you get past the contrived feud and everything that follows it, there’s not much to see here except bizarre depictions of Africans as a full-fledged servant class and outdoor activities like ostrich riding. In every sense, the movie looks like subpar too and in particular the shots of wildlife and scenery are dreary and cheap. It matches the spirit of what’s happening at least. Sandler’s movies to date haven’t had the most politically correct sensibilities and this one is no exception. The two older daughters in typical fashion are endlessly dumped on for looking masculine. And when Lauren goes behind Jim’s back to give the eldest a makeover, we learn the heartwarming lesson that even the ugliest, most mannish duckling can be redeemed by hair extensions and a new dress. What’s every bit as irritating are the cloying plays for the heartstrings that all the soppy backstory about Sandler’s deceased wife. It’s meant to be sweet, but it almost feels as if it was erected as a force field; an emotional barrier meant to make you feel cynical if you come swinging at the movie too hard.
Together for now the third time, Sandler and Barrymore aren’t exactly Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. They’re not Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan either. Blended is a bad and baffling cast, to be sure. The child actors are carelessly directed with sitcom shrillness. Shaq shows up just because he can. Kevin Nealon is hard to watch, as is Tim Crews as some sort of omnipresent resort entertainer (he gives the movie a tinge of cartoon surrealism). It’s Wendi McLendon-Covey as Barrymore’s co-worker and Joel McHale as the derelict, flakey ex-husband who probably make it out the most unscathed (even if he’s far more effective at being a jerk than being funny). But the notion that these two together again constitutes a cinematic event of sorts is a real reach. Sandler and Barrymore seem tired and disengaged together. Sandler doesn’t even bother to alter even fractionally his movie persona for the occasion. He’s always the same guy, with the same temperament, and the same goofy voices he periodically tosses out. He barely acts. He shows up and coasts through it. It’s the same here and his utter lack of charisma or seeming interest in performing or doing anything beyond a good vacation is evident. The man has talent though. He couldn’t have gotten this far without some of it and everyone who has seen Punch Drunk Love knows that brilliant work is in his bones, however much concealed he’s content to let it be. Fans of Adam Sandler really ought to demand much more from him. That or much less.
N. Tensen