Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo
Absolutely true story: I was in New York City for a few days last week, and at one point as I was waiting to cross the street by 59th and Broadway, I noticed I was standing next to Rob Schneider. He was wearing dark sunglasses, a tan felt hat with two horns on it, and was thickly layered in pancake makeup. This was my only brush with celebrity in NYC, which I now find oddly metaphoric after seeing Deuce Bigalow. Believing as I do that humor is the first and best defense against evil and mediocrity, I might be inclined to think that Schneider is in fact an anti-comedy devil, hiding his demon antlers under that goofy hat and his lizard skin underneath that Mary Kay. Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo is aggressively banal, and the level of thought that went into the movie is evidenced by the redundant title alone, like saying “female stewardess”, “wooden tree” or “dull Presidential debate.”
Moments of comedy or even wit are sparse – Bigalow’s stereotype-busting* black pimp rattles off variations about his stable of “man-whores” and “man-ginas” that are about as clever are the film gets; there are two tone-setting toilet-based jokes in the first five minutes alone. In a movie season where three hour films seem the norm, this 95 minute farce makes up for its comparatively brief running time by feeling longer than Titanic. I’d love to tell you more about the enormous transvestite that keeps whole baked chickens in his/her bra or the fight scene involving a prosthetic limb, but the movie’s gall in trying to uplift me in the last reel with a pathetic homily about how love is the sexiest thing there is has left me totally drained. If you’ve seen the previews, you should know what to expect – if you still forge onward to the theatre with the expectation of being amused, you get what you deserve. A significant portion of the (mostly adult) audience I saw Deuce Bigalow with actually hooted with pleasure at the loud flatulence that accompanies Deuce’s heart-to-heart with his restroom attendant father. Whether they did so from genuine amusement or a desperate attempt to feel as though they were going to get their money’s worth whatever the cost to their dignity is hardly relevant – if you are this kind of person, stay away from me. Seriously. We will not be friends.
- Jared O'Connor
* Note the weary sarcasm.
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All Content © 1997, 1998, 1999 Jared O'Connor and Michael Baker