That was a joke in the headline. Because Robert Lindsay, as Bert Rigby is a miner. Get it?
...Well if you didn't find that the height of hilarity, then buckle up, Sparky. It's better than almost other gag in the movie.
The real 'fool' in all this though, is me in wasting 90 minutes of my invaluable existence on this rubbish. I could've quite easily switched off the torture somewhere between Robert Lindsay doing his lamentable silent movie star impressions, or his truly terrible singing... and perhaps I mentioned his decidedly dodgy dancing? Well if I didn't, I just did. So there.
To say this film had a 'plot' would be so charitable you should claim tax-free relief from the government for even making that claim. Somehow, despite the inarguable evidence in display in the paragraph above, Bert Rigby decides to become a showbiz star and moves to America in order to raise enough money to save a mouldy old theatre in his Northern town... and that's as much as I can tell you.
Not because I do want to give away any spoilers, but the script rebounds from one increasingly desperate set-piece from the next with no rhyme or reason and definitely no wit or verve. Bert does his cringeworthy Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin routine. Bert becomes a pizza delivery boy and gets mugged. Bert gets a job as a butler and sets a twenty-four million million dollar painting on fire...
On and on the movie unfolds like a series of tedious off-the-shelf sitcom moments, throwing any old random cack it can at the screen, almost begging us to find a redeeming moment. Kind of sad, really. It even wheels out a tragically underused Robbie Coltrane only to dump him halfway through. When you can't even make any use of his considerable abilities, you know you're in trouble.
Carl Reiner wrote and directed this utter piffle, which just goes to show how far he'd fallen from his glory days with Mel Brooks. When you aren't scratching your head with confusion the absurdity with what's going on, you'll be bored out of your gourd... or physically in pain when we're introduced to a ditzy woman near the end (but not near enough) who gets FAR too much screentime for my liking. If you're forced to watch it, you'll know who I mean... she possesses the most god-awful attempt at a fake speech impediment I've ever heard in my life.
Presumably, Reiner told her to put this dreadful accent on because it was supposed to be funny. But like nearly everything else here, it isn't. By the time the big onstage song 'n' dance finale at long last arrived, my despairing mood couldn't have been more at odds with the rictus-grinning actors onscreen having a good old fashioned knees-up to 'Putting On The Ritz'.
A funeral would've been a far more fitting final venue for this dead-on-arrival feature, with the only audible sound being that of Father Mckenzie delivering the last rites to its maggot-strewn corpse.
From ashes to ashes, dust to dust... this movie sucks. Amen. 2/10.
...Well if you didn't find that the height of hilarity, then buckle up, Sparky. It's better than almost other gag in the movie.
The real 'fool' in all this though, is me in wasting 90 minutes of my invaluable existence on this rubbish. I could've quite easily switched off the torture somewhere between Robert Lindsay doing his lamentable silent movie star impressions, or his truly terrible singing... and perhaps I mentioned his decidedly dodgy dancing? Well if I didn't, I just did. So there.
To say this film had a 'plot' would be so charitable you should claim tax-free relief from the government for even making that claim. Somehow, despite the inarguable evidence in display in the paragraph above, Bert Rigby decides to become a showbiz star and moves to America in order to raise enough money to save a mouldy old theatre in his Northern town... and that's as much as I can tell you.
Not because I do want to give away any spoilers, but the script rebounds from one increasingly desperate set-piece from the next with no rhyme or reason and definitely no wit or verve. Bert does his cringeworthy Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin routine. Bert becomes a pizza delivery boy and gets mugged. Bert gets a job as a butler and sets a twenty-four million million dollar painting on fire...
On and on the movie unfolds like a series of tedious off-the-shelf sitcom moments, throwing any old random cack it can at the screen, almost begging us to find a redeeming moment. Kind of sad, really. It even wheels out a tragically underused Robbie Coltrane only to dump him halfway through. When you can't even make any use of his considerable abilities, you know you're in trouble.
Carl Reiner wrote and directed this utter piffle, which just goes to show how far he'd fallen from his glory days with Mel Brooks. When you aren't scratching your head with confusion the absurdity with what's going on, you'll be bored out of your gourd... or physically in pain when we're introduced to a ditzy woman near the end (but not near enough) who gets FAR too much screentime for my liking. If you're forced to watch it, you'll know who I mean... she possesses the most god-awful attempt at a fake speech impediment I've ever heard in my life.
Presumably, Reiner told her to put this dreadful accent on because it was supposed to be funny. But like nearly everything else here, it isn't. By the time the big onstage song 'n' dance finale at long last arrived, my despairing mood couldn't have been more at odds with the rictus-grinning actors onscreen having a good old fashioned knees-up to 'Putting On The Ritz'.
A funeral would've been a far more fitting final venue for this dead-on-arrival feature, with the only audible sound being that of Father Mckenzie delivering the last rites to its maggot-strewn corpse.
From ashes to ashes, dust to dust... this movie sucks. Amen. 2/10.