Hey, everyone. Capone in Chicago here.
I dare you to go see MARMADUKE. Seriously, I fucking dare you. But here's the caveat if you accept my dare: you can't buy your tickets online. What I'm really daring you is to go up to another human being behind a ticket seller's window, look them square in the eye, and ask them for a ticket to MARMADUKE without laughing or dropping your gaze in humiliation. Because if you can do that, you have stones of iron. And here's the thing: don't give me that bullshit line about "It's MARMADUKE. What did you expect?" You know what I expect? I expect that any movie in this day and age that is greenlit and given millions of dollars to shoot and do what is clearly some halfway-decent, talking-animal special effects at least fucking try a little bit. I'm not asking for much, just something resembling an effort, so that I don't get mad at all of the other micro-budget works that didn't get made because MARMADUKE was crying out for a big-screen version.
As one character in the film puts it, "to rub margarita salt in the wound," this film seriously shits on the careers of some somewhat viable talent, beginning with Owen Wilson. Say what you want about the dude's film role choices over the years, but he starred in a surprisingly well-liked and well-made work called MARLEY AND ME not long ago, a heartfelt movie about owners and their troublesome dog. I don't know a soul who didn't cry during that one. So to lend his voice to the title character in this dungheap is an offense to anyone who was truly touched by MARLEY AND ME.
The humans in MARMADUKE actually fare worse than the voice actors. I sat in the deadly silent screening looking at Lee Pace and the previously reliable Judy Greer (as well as the baffling presence of William H. Macy), wondering which one would fire their agent first for thinking this was the career move to make. I felt worst for Greer, who is such a smart and funny actor, even in subpar material. But watching her in this movie is like watching a fish tossed up on land, twitching, gaping for air, and eventually dying on the cold, hard ground. Dog voices are provided by the likes of Emma Stone, Christopher Mintz-Plasse, Steve Coogan, Fergie, Kiefer Sutherland, Sam Elliott and a couple of Wayans. Sadly, Stone is the only one even registering an effort. And if you really want a master's class in shitty voice acting, look no further than George Lopez as the film's sole cat character, Carlos.
The only member of the production whose career will remain unfazed is director Tom Dey, who has given us such legendary works as SHANGHAI NOON, SHOWTIME, and FAILURE TO LAUNCH. His career has been shit for 10 years, so nothing in Marmaduke could harm it. The terrible, terrible screenplay (Tim Rasmussen and Vince Di Meglio) is what sealed the deal for me. It is one cliche after another. There isn't an original thought or joke or life lesson anywhere to be found in the script. The dialog is so unnatural and stiff that it feels as if it were written on cue cards minutes before the cameras started rolling. These actors are simply too good to deliver these shit lines in any kind of believable manner, and so they don't even make the effort. Poop jokes, fart jokes, doggie puns all abound, and very little else of substance. No, I wasn't expecting the greatest American movie in decades, but just something, anything that resembles trying would have been appreciated. I think most of the people who worked on MARMADUKE are embarrassed to have done so; I was certainly embarrassed to tell people I'd seen it. MARMADUKE can eat my bone.
-- Capone
capone@aintitcool.com
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