Money corrupts and absolute money corrupts absolutely. Some of the lines go something like this. "I get my brains beat out and what I got for it? Two Rolls Royces!" "Well, that ain't bad." "But you got EIGHT!" It's a boxing satire in which opportunistic promoter Samuel L. Jackson, as a loud and beturbaned fakir, living in a gilded palace and surrounded by double-D trophies, decides that revenue is falling because nobody wants to pay to see two black guys beating each other up in the ring. The solution? Find some white guy who doesn't have a chance and match them up in Las Vegas.
The white guy is Peter Berg, Golden Gloves champ from some years ago who has gone on to a career in heavy metal in Cleveland without ever having fought professionally. Being a rock star isn't as bad as it might be. After a set, back in his crowded dressing room, his assistants usher groupies in one at a time for his appraisal. He shakes his head twice and nods on the third try, and she goes down on him while Jackson makes his pitch.
It's pretty amusing. Flagrant hypocrisy often is. Molière did it better in "Tartuffe" but this is no slouch. I laughed out loud, sometimes at business that was going on in the background. The non-Irish Berg enters the ring wearing a kilt, accompanied by "Danny Boy" on the pipes and a couple of dwarfs dressed as leprechauns. He's a Buddhist who is only fighting to relieve the "homeless situation in America and the United States as well." There are a lot of B stories and some of them are lost in the shuffle. Jon Lovitz disappears half way through. Some of the pauses for laughter are too long, suggesting the movie isn't quite as funny as its makers thought it might be. And it does go over the top with aimless slapstick at times.
Yet it IS funny from time to time and if you can put up with a lot of noise and rushing around it's worth catching. None of the performances can be faulted.
The white guy is Peter Berg, Golden Gloves champ from some years ago who has gone on to a career in heavy metal in Cleveland without ever having fought professionally. Being a rock star isn't as bad as it might be. After a set, back in his crowded dressing room, his assistants usher groupies in one at a time for his appraisal. He shakes his head twice and nods on the third try, and she goes down on him while Jackson makes his pitch.
It's pretty amusing. Flagrant hypocrisy often is. Molière did it better in "Tartuffe" but this is no slouch. I laughed out loud, sometimes at business that was going on in the background. The non-Irish Berg enters the ring wearing a kilt, accompanied by "Danny Boy" on the pipes and a couple of dwarfs dressed as leprechauns. He's a Buddhist who is only fighting to relieve the "homeless situation in America and the United States as well." There are a lot of B stories and some of them are lost in the shuffle. Jon Lovitz disappears half way through. Some of the pauses for laughter are too long, suggesting the movie isn't quite as funny as its makers thought it might be. And it does go over the top with aimless slapstick at times.
Yet it IS funny from time to time and if you can put up with a lot of noise and rushing around it's worth catching. None of the performances can be faulted.