The monumentally disgusting Miss March seems to have one key moral to guide it along: ignorance is bliss. Among the most notable examples of Miss March's caveman-like intelligence is that it almost seems like it wants to grab and keep hold of every cliché it can take, but of course, something this reptilian, queasy and nearly reclusive in its anti-comedic not-being-funniness simply doesn't just go for mere clichés--Miss March functions much like a vacuum, too. That is, it makes sure, using plenty of noticeable effort, to suck out all the possible fun and humor of pop culture references, physical gags, et cetera--Miss March is like some dead, strange thing, a type of indecipherable, cancerous lump that started out by meeting my already-low expectations and going only down from there. Miss March is not merely bad, it's sprawling, multi-layered and complex in its boring, plain awfulness, something so fascinatingly stale that it's like a labyrinth of stupidity.
It begins as some casual fluff, children playing inside the cleanest, cutest lil' house in the suburb--but it then downgrades with the two boys finding a Playboy magazine. The directors and writers, with all their uncreative might, seem to pack every endlessly, relentlessly immature joke possible, save for, of course, one, single, solitary, lonely relatively-funny joke (the abstinence assembly sequence even manages to be clever when satirizing all those super-clean sugary abstinence speakers). Of course, Miss March can't merely respond to the lowest common denominator of humor alone--it makes sure to be a leech off previous emotional-ride melodrama tactics used in infinity-plus other comedies that existed before it, not to mention adding all the phony inspiration to the sentimentality that a horde of living, breathing forms of smug, TV-bred culture can live off of for a lifetime. Of course, Miss March doesn't even have the brain or the self-referential fun to even poke fun or at least understand its own ineptitude; all the sappy, happily ever after segments are done without even the slightest bit of irony. It's cringe-inducing. And this may come out as cold and cynical (maybe because I am, maybe because I'm just bothered by this movie's existence), but for the crowd that actually laughs, cries and cheers for this stuff, and there are lots of you, I sure hope you find some joy out of it. Because all I can muster out of it is contempt.
It begins as some casual fluff, children playing inside the cleanest, cutest lil' house in the suburb--but it then downgrades with the two boys finding a Playboy magazine. The directors and writers, with all their uncreative might, seem to pack every endlessly, relentlessly immature joke possible, save for, of course, one, single, solitary, lonely relatively-funny joke (the abstinence assembly sequence even manages to be clever when satirizing all those super-clean sugary abstinence speakers). Of course, Miss March can't merely respond to the lowest common denominator of humor alone--it makes sure to be a leech off previous emotional-ride melodrama tactics used in infinity-plus other comedies that existed before it, not to mention adding all the phony inspiration to the sentimentality that a horde of living, breathing forms of smug, TV-bred culture can live off of for a lifetime. Of course, Miss March doesn't even have the brain or the self-referential fun to even poke fun or at least understand its own ineptitude; all the sappy, happily ever after segments are done without even the slightest bit of irony. It's cringe-inducing. And this may come out as cold and cynical (maybe because I am, maybe because I'm just bothered by this movie's existence), but for the crowd that actually laughs, cries and cheers for this stuff, and there are lots of you, I sure hope you find some joy out of it. Because all I can muster out of it is contempt.