Yes, some imbecile (probably Martin Lawrence) thought it would be a rewarding idea to film Martin Lawrence in a female fat suit again. Only this time, there's somebody joining him to have their dignity dragged down into the burning core of the Earth. This poor soul is Brandon T. Jackson ("Tropic Thunder"), who will probably never work in Hollywood again.
The opening scene is a beautiful example of cinema at its spectacular finest. It depicts FBI Agent Malcolm Turner (Lawrence) inexplicably speeding after a truck being driven by an Asian mailman (Ken Jeong, "The Hangover") refusing to give him his mail until he's arrived on his doorstep. "What purpose does this obviously glorious scene serve?" I hear you ask. I'm afraid I cannot answer that; the content is of far too high an intellect for us humans to understand.
It turns out there's a letter from Duke University informing him that they have accepted the application of his stepson, Trent (Jackson). However, Trent has his heart set on rapping his way into success as his persona named "Prodi-G." Yeah, that name's taken, buddy -- only, that band has spelled the word correctly.
While Malcolm is on a case to take down Chirkoff (Tony Curran, "Underworld: Evolution"), a notorious Russian mobster, Trent stalks his father to convince him to sign a music contract. Because of this, he witnesses the murder of an FBI informant (Max Casella, "Boardwalk Empire"), and Chirkoff has seen the 17-year-old's face.
So, of course, Malcolm gets the fat suit and blonde wig out again, and one for his son, too. Has he no shame? They go into hiding in a performing arts college for girls, both dressed as rather manly-looking broads, with Malcolm's "Big Momma" fitting in the role of the housemaid, while Trent's "Charmaine" becomes a new student. It looks like Trent's attending university, after all -- just while wearing high heels and fake tits.
"Big Mommas: Like Father, Like Son" is definitely an interesting experience. It's interesting in the same way that a random stranger on the street sticking their finger up your anus is interesting. You feel dirty, you feel wrong, and you feel like punching something/someone -- preferably the perpetrator of your anal intrusion.
It is a series of scenes consisting of flimsy fat jokes and irritatingly childish attempts at one-liners. It is a stretch-marked Martin Lawrence crushing tables with the sheer weight of his fat suit. It is Brandon T. Jackson putting on a girly voice and unsubtly eyeing up his fellow students. It is vile, it is moronic, and it is jaw-droppingly obnoxious.
In one notably excruciating scene, Trent gets up on stage in front of the entire school and begins to awkwardly rap. A fellow student starts to play the piano to help him along and they both sing in suspiciously auto-tuned voices, which causes everyone in the cafeteria (of course including Big Momma) to dance together in a perfectly choreographed "High School Musical"-esque sequence. You may think this is the big sing-off finale, but it's not. It's 30 minutes in.
It's this that leads me to believe that the makers of this threequel didn't give a flying monkey about the product they were constructing. To include such a monstrously hideous scene is to either be uncaring or a sadist who enjoys swinging a carpet beater into the viewers' testicles. The fact that this is from the same director as "Deck the Halls" should come to no surprise, then.
The one and only mark I'm giving this film is for Faizon Love ("Couples Retreat"), who plays a frisky janitor infatuated with Big Momma's supposedly arousing physique. He's got lovely comic timing, carries a lovable (albeit creepy) personality, and is the film's single strong aspect. Mr. Lawrence could learn a few things from this man.
Laden with product placement (e.g. the camera panning down specifically to show the squeaky-clean Apple logo on a MacBook Pro), stricken of laughs and bordering upon unwatchable, "Big Mommas: Like Father, Like Son" is a pitiful excuse for a brain-at-the-door cross-dressing comedy. The film teaches some good lessons, but the only lesson I learned was to stay away from future Martin Lawrence comedies.
1/10
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