We gave it a C
How do you top that image of a (sorry, grandma) spunky Cameron Diaz burned into our brains by ”There’s Something About Mary”? If you’re the Farrelly brothers, you pull a ”Time Code” and shoot an unfinished script in one take. That’s the feeling one gets from Me, Myself & Irene, a film no one would fault for being chintzy and dull witted if it weren’t so lethargically self satisfied.
Eerily meek lawman Charlie (Jim Carrey) gets cuckolded by a black midget, develops a thuggish alter ego named Hank (imagine Ace Ventura impersonating Clint Eastwood — poorly), and dukes it out with himself for the love of Irene (a too prim Renée Zellweger) — all against the backdrop of a sinister EPA plot. Follow? Don’t bother. The point is, somebody gets a chicken up the wazoo.
Barnyard sodomy aside, the ”Airplane!” era racial conceit (Charlie’s bastard sons are jive talking geniuses! Golly!) deserves catcalls from the NAACP and the Writers Guild, simply because the gag is so gracelessly flogged for guilty laughs. Kinda makes you miss the days when zipper mishaps were uproarious, and nobody (except Ben Stiller) got hurt.