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If Lucy Fell
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by Sony Pictures
Sales Rank: 89283
Price: $14.95
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A disappointing second effort by writer/director/actor Eric Schaeffer, whose small first film, <i>My Life's in Turnaround</i>, showed great promise. This romantic comedy tries much, much too hard and feels more like a freshman production than a sophomore endeavor. The plot is all fluff and the dialogue is not only meaningless but often embarrassingly crude. Schaeffer and Sarah Jessica Parker have their moments as platonic roommates trying to find true love before their 30th birthdays. She suggests that if they do not find their soul mates within a month, they leap from the Brooklyn Bridge. Lots of scrambling for the perfect mate ensues, with much predictability. By the time the movie ends, you'll be willing to push them both. <i>--Rochelle O'Gorman</i>
Viewer Reviews
Since acquiring a Sony HD TV, I've been watching far too many bad movies for no better reason than the novelty of seeing images in high definition. But with fare this bad, and with HD channels comparatively few, I'm seriously considering returning to the old 20" GE--either that or order one of the pay services like BET Jazz.
This film is so sophomoric, from conception to script to realization, that either the filmmakers are cinematic ignoramuses or colossal cynics, serving up anything intelligible to the lowest forms of humanity. The writing, especially the dialog, is on the level of the most obvious sit-coms minus the laugh track--a regression by light years from any 30-minute Norman Lear production. There are even more close-ups than you're likely to see in a made-for-TV counterpart. About the only thing that distinguishes this turkey as a theatrical release is the explicit crudeness of the language (which doesn't begin to approach Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor or "The Aristocrats"--this film can't even make talking dirty much fun).
The two male leads are cast in the roles of archetypal, short-guy losers who still make out. But clearly neither they nor their writers have seen a Woody Allen film or, for that matter, Chaplin, Keaton, or the Marx Brothers. Maybe not even Steve Martin. Ben Stiller walks around like a clueless guest at a Halloween costume party trying to get noticed with a whoopee cushion.
At least the two women do justice by my Sony picture, permitting me to turn off the sound and improvise my own script inspired by the possibilities of the intelligence lurking beneath faces that, while expressive, leave you wondering about what--and why.
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If Lucy Fell
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