Even the losers get lucky sometimes

My Super Ex-Girlfriend (2006)
20th Century Fox presents an Ivan Reitman film, starring Luke Wilson and Uma Thurman. Written by Don Payne. 95m. PG-13 for sexual content, crude humor, language and brief nudity.

2 stars

We should pity superheroes.

Fearing repercussions from their archenemies, superheroes have a manic compulsion to mask their true identities. Their alter-egos are often subdued versions of their genuine personas, a deliberate attempt to temper suspicions about their super-secrets. They stay shrouded in the background, while they yearn for attention from unrequited crushes.

These peculiarities are not exactly the ideal groundwork for that perfect Match.com profile.

When she’s not saving the five boroughs from its own calamitous demise, G-Girl (Uma Thurman) is Jenny Johnson, a dowdy assistant at a Manhattan art gallery. Many a fantasy film has propagated the notion of a male superhero lusting after an unattainable female companion. The tables are turned in “My Super Ex-Girlfriend,” where Jenny is both the superhero and the unfeasible object of desire.

Not that any of this stops Matt Saunders (Luke Wilson), a small fry from the development sector, who invokes his nerdy charm to score a date with Jenny. While years of practice allow her to easily thwart evil at every turn, our heroine is decidedly rustier on the dating scene.

Jenny habitually overanalyzes the minuteness of Matt’s behaviors, is clingy immediately, and acts possessive and jealous of his attention. Essentially, she’s the Alex Forrest of superheroes, without the knife-wielding psychosis.

Lest the film be inappropriately named, Matt breaks things off his needy companion almost immediately. Ivan Reitman, who has made a career directing inelegant comedies about misfits, ensures this by-the-numbers plot at least has a couple of chuckles thrown in to keep audiences seated and satiated.

The real attraction is a Wilson, but not the one whose name takes first-billing on the marquee. Rainn Wilson (no apparent relationship to the brothers Owen and Luke) has been stealing scenes for years while playing kooky characters on “Six Feet Under” and “The Office.” His geeky persona and deadpan delivery are perfect for the sidekick role in this film.

Wilson is the only actor to treat his character as if it isn’t hopelessly consigned to the superhero/screwball comedy formula; his haughty brush-off of the forces of good and evil battling around him, for example, are the foundations for the film’s best scenes.

It’s a freedom I wish the film had granted to Eddie Izzard, a one-man comedy delight, and Wanda Sykes, a bombastic comedienne, who are both unfairly chained to the plot’s contrivances. Although Izzard fancies himself as Professor Bedlam, the character holds no superpowers (unless you consider an unchecked obsession with Jenny to be a sign of a higher life form). Sykes, meanwhile, is relegated to a couple dreary stabs at a sexual harassment joke that wouldn’t have even been funny during Monicagate.

Since romantic comedies often hinge on cosmic balancing, Anna Faris is introduced as Matt’s semblant soul mate – although we conclude this long before the plot allows it to be possible.

With Faris in the mix, the plot is fertile with superhero revenge angles. There is little so simultaneously chilling and humorous as a live shark being utilized as a projectile or a sedan that has been re-parked amongst the constellations. With unchecked power, Jenny can redefine the audience’s understanding of nasty breakups.

While I don’t recommend that you rush out to see “My Super Ex-Girlfriend” on the big screen, I’ll admit it made for enjoyable counter-programming to last month’s “Superman Returns.” After being force fed the idea that with great power comes a great burden, it’s refreshing to find a superhero film that isn’t taking itself anywhere near that seriously.

This wedding crasher stays through the honeymoon

You, Me and Dupree (2006)
Universal Pictures presents a Russo brothers film, starring Owen Wilson, Matt Dillon and Kate Hudson. Written by Mike LeSieur. 108m. PG-13 for sexual content, brief nudity, crude humor, language and a drug reference.

1.5 stars

Molly and Carl Peterson are newlyweds already in trouble.

Their life before nuptials was idyllic; afterwards, it has become catastrophic. The catalyst for this downward spiral is a flaxen-haired mop-top named Dupree (Owen Wilson), a ne’er-do-well who invades the couple’s suburban honeymoon after being fired from his job as a copier-machine salesman.

Laughably, he’s best buddies with the decidedly more industrious Carl (Matt Dillon), who is perhaps the first character in cinematic history to marry the boss’s daughter and not try to parlay that conquest into a substantial promotion.

And oh, what a score it is for this career-minded chap. Molly (Kate Hudson) cooks, cleans and has more than one outfit that fetishizes her cute behind. She demonstrates little a posteriori knowledge of her beau in tow, depending instead on her half-baked houseguest to fill her in on the particulars.

Meanwhile, Carl is being systematically emasculated at work by his new father-in-law (Michael Douglas, so imagine Gordon Gecko without the bloodthirst) who is not above a little chicanery. He hijacks Carl’s development designs, while unsubtly advocating vasectomy for his newly inherited son.

This marriage is one call-in to Dr. Laura from going completely south.

I have a healthy respect for Wilson. As gag man in his partnership with filmmaker Wes Anderson, the Butterscotch Stallion has undoubtedly turned many great scripts into curious classics. But it was Anderson’s reverence for the medium that provided an important, unshakeable foundation.

The greatest miscalculation of “You, Me and Dupree” is that it leans too heavily on Wilson’s surfer smile and queasy charm. Trading Vince Vaughan for Matt Dillon as sidekick has made Wilson’s post-wedding-crasher into an embarrassing interloper instead of an endearing houseguest.

Hudson was shockingly dynamic in “Almost Famous,” a breakout performance that feels eons ago only because the charismatic actress has been the lynchpin of so many successive bombs. “Dupree” is a gross misappropriation of her talents. I’d call the script misogynistic, if doing so didn’t inherently suggest that first-time screenwriter Mike LeSieur even understood the basics about women.

Hudson shockingly allows herself to be exploited by the script’s juvenile setups, including a bikini-ready fantasy sequence which has the distinction of being the only scene given real direction to by the television-trained Anthony and Joe Russo.

We hear much about the off-screen machinations of other female characters – including the domineering madam married to Neil (Seth Rogan), a fellow friend of Carl’s who continually longs for the long-passed independence of fraternity life. But women are treated like hostile combatants to this testosterone-induced prose, and no one steals more than a few seconds of screen time.

Despite this wrong turn, the film is not devoid of it own charming moments. Dupree has a gentle sensibility around the neighborhood children, tempting me to errantly guess that the script would transform this gadabout into a bona fide school teacher.

Oh, our favorite moocher will finally manage that previously unattainable solvency, but how I must not reveal. If I did so, it would undoubtedly temper the only sustained laughs you may experience in this entire film.

“Pirates” holds sway over audiences, if not critics

Pirates of the Caribbean (2006)
Walt Disney Pictures presents a Gore Verbinski film, starring Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom. Written by Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio. 150m. PG-13 for intense sequences of adventure violence, including frightening images.

2.5 stars

Oh woe, is the homogenized composition of modern cinema, where a sequel to a movie inspired by a theme park attraction now demarcates the box office’s utmost threshold.

There exists now a deafening discourse about “critic-proof” movies, usually defined by their staggering budgets and the incessant droning of their pre-engineered hype. I hold little pretense about my capacity to help you decide what few films are worthy of both your time and money. But any critic could feel despondent after the public declared “Dead Man’s Chest” to be this summer’s first legitimate “can’t miss” movie.

The entire film is a celebration of artifice, the holy grail of style over substance. Actors are buried under mounds of makeup, prosthetics and computer-generated add-ons. Its tortuous plot begs to be disregarded for its often inane maneuvering.

In fact, “Dead Man’s Chest” likely borrows its core philosophy from its rollercoaster origins: This 150-minute action extravaganza is hell-bent on providing an unrelenting experience. There is nary a minute that passes in “Dead Man’s Chest” without a frenetic sword skirmish, a rum-fueled fight, or some grossly sensationalized sea strife.

Screenwriters Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio, who also held command over the franchise’s first script, seem complacent to let this stylized, cartoonish violence again navigate the story. But audiences still need even the flimsiest of excuses for Capt. Jack Sparrow (Johnny Depp) to guide the Black Pearl to each increasingly exotic destination.

We’re therefore subjugated by a plot that perpetrates two unforgivable sins: it introduces too many characters, only to kill most of them, and it unnecessarily complicates what should be a straightforward swashbuckler.

The convoluted plot of the first film, “The Curse of the Black Pearl,” is predominately responsible for this sticky wicket. Both heroes of the original installment, the tenacious Will Turner (Orlando Bloom) and his cheeky bride-to-be, Elizabeth (Keira Knightley) have returned, only to find themselves arrested on trumped up charges for assisting the pirate Sparrow.

Will is granted a temporary reprieve from incarceration to find an enchanted compass possessed by the saucy captain, only to learn Sparrow is dodging a debt he owes to a cephalopod pirate named Davy Jones (Bill Nighy).

All seemingly permanent alliances fall by the wayside when both the alleged heroes and their villainous counterparts turn their attentions towards a priceless artifact: a chest containing Davy Jones’ heart. I could expound of why Jones voluntarily surrendered a vital organ, but that would require a much longer review. Suffice to say: Whoever controls the heart has dominion over the sea, since Jones also possesses the ability to immediately summon a deadly sea monster.

Jones is the real unmatched beauty of all the computer-concocted elements of “Dead Man’s Chest.” Actor Bill Nighy, who has often been cast for his distinct features, is completely disguised under the special effects. His authoritative swagger can be heard, but his facial features are erased, substituted instead with a bizarre marriage of man and octopus. Jones, who has a beard of tentacles that just screams slimy, also sports two crustacean-esque appendages.

But no one outdoes Depp, whose effeminate, rock star meets pirate, persona is only outshined by his bedazzling accoutrement. While Sparrow may hold sway over an enchanted compass, his own moral compass is permanently on the fritz. This is the screenwriters’ main triumph; they allow Depp the freedom to brew up dozens of zany idioms and expressions.

I go to these “Pirates of the Caribbean” movies to see Depp. Even as I’m force-fed a dozen new characters – and as many plot turns and teasers for the next film that I’m sure is coming – I know the pressure is off. “Pirates” will be grotesquely successful no matter what I say. Man, woman, child and critic: We’re all here for the action. Let’s stay entertained.