'Paul Blart: Mall Cop' - Guest Review

The following is a guest review of Paul Blart: Mall Cop by Tony Yates of De Grypis:

Fun Fact: Fat is funny… but not intrinsically.

A peril of making a film that is intentionally cliché is that viewers, who of course possess this knowledge, a priori expect certain scenes, and expect them to come at the right time. But while Paul Blart: Mall Cop borrows liberally from the archetype of the genre—the pitiable hero comedy—the scenes are clunkily integrated, a loose conglomerate with neither direction nor flow. Awkwardly misplaced too early in the action is the ‘hero-blows-it-with-the-girl-and-therefore-must-later-atone’ scene. At this early juncture, there is little to suggest that Blart and the girl have a romantic future. In fact, the only clue, a romantic Segway-ride-for-two through the crowded mall, likewise seems unprecedented, Blart and kiosk operator/dream girl Amy's (Jayma Mays) only prior on-screen interaction being their characters’ first encounter. Similarly, the “terrorists”—extreme sports gear toting teenage ninja hooligans—should have a plan of sorts. A moment’s pause for the exposition of such a plan might offer the viewer something to cling to, an aid to deciphering what, in fact, Blart will ultimately thwart. But no such moment exists; instead, the Urban Outfitters-clad adolescents run amok through the mall, seeking out mythical “codes,” apparently the key to the robbery. They seem to adhere to the Underpants Gnomes’ business model of mall terrorism: Step 1—seek out bizarre input, here said “codes,” which are inked with invisible Magic Markers on the “terrorists”’ forearms; Step 2—???; Step 3—exorbitant profit. It never becomes clear that the “plan” has proceeded past the initial, enter-the-mall-with-guns-and-magic-markers phase; no “terrorists” successfully retrieve any “codes,” until, at a convenient time, the villain suddenly has all of them. Nor do the police seem remotely interested in raining on their parade; it is fantastically fortunate for the “terrorists” that a team of officers is cowed by a pair of smoke grenades, which seem to comprise the whole of their defenses. Any remaining illusion of impenetrability is dispelled by the effortless entrance of Blart’s suitably homely daughter (Raini Rodriguez) into the mall.

In the absence of a plot, the movie’s only remaining vehicle is its steady stream of fat jokes. Unfortunately, these too are largely stale and fall flat. The comedic value of the best moment of the Mission Impossible-style montage—the fat man slide—was consumed far before the film was released, in the preview. Thus they are unable, for nearly an hour and a half, to bear the film’s weight (Get it? Weight?! Get it?! GET IT?!). I couldn’t even summon up laughs for the painfully deliberate Die Hard tribute scenes (Aside: Who the hell is this chief of mall security, intended to fill the shoes of Sgt. Powell [Reginald VelJohnson]? Does he even appear before the “terrorists” take over?). The superhero allowances we cheerfully grant to John McClane are less by several orders of magnitude than those necessary to believe in Paul Blart.

The film’s few bright spots include Blart’s skillful Segway manipulation—truly impressive, especially for the portly star of King of Queens—and the occasional cruel one-liner delivered by Stuart (Stephen Rannazzisi), whose haughty contempt for Blart is comically untempered by his equally pathetic career—pen salesman.

Thus for 87 minutes, director Steve Carr and the proud (judging from approximately 29 attributions in the opening credits) producers at Happy Madison asked me to suspend even the pretense of reality. But at its climax, the series of twists is so utterly implausible that even in my carelessly assembled, constraint absent, never second-guessed fictional realm of infinite possibility I still cannot fathom that Paul Blart has got the girl and saved the day. But while this may put me in the minority, I have faith that the failure of this movie is not in its admittedly ludicrous premise. In the hands of a better director, the path of the narrative could become predictable in the mode of the best of the genre: the next step in the silly sequence so obvious that laughs could be advance prepared. Similarly, I strongly believe that fat jokes are an inexhaustible resource; a bit of ingenuity on the part of the writers, sadly lacking here, could churn out a few fresh ones which, fleshed out with some old time favorites, are easily capable of carrying a pretension-less film like Paul Blart.

Comments

[Shelly]

GOT IT.

[Brett Yates]

I must note, since you forgot to mention it, that, among this terrible movie's bright spots, Adhir Kalyan, as the obsessive ex-boyfriend, was a standout. Really funny!

[Eric]

Just wasted a Saturday evening watching the worst movie ever! Should have read your review first