Man. If you’re anything like me, and you watched the Meet The Parents/Fockers movies and thought, “Holy balls, this is what modern cinema needs! More “focker’ puns! What a mesmerizing performance by Robert De Niro!” then you’ll be happy to know they’ve made a third Focker movie. This one’s called Little Fockers, and it has everything you expect it to: astoundingly varied fart jokes, Jessica Alba as a drugged-up floozie, Blythe Danner’s vapid stares, and De Niro taking his vast canon of Hollywood history and burying all of it up Ben Stiller’s ass, never again to see the light of day. I watched Little Fockers so you all never have to.
Let’s talk plot, kids. Wait 8212; let’s not. I’d be wasting my precious word count to try to explain it to you, considering it’s clearly evident that the plot is really not that important. Robert De Niro ambitiously reprises his role as Jack Byrnes, the overly possessive, paranoid and mainly bored father-in-law of Ben Stiller’s character Gaylord Focker (no guesses as to how many times that name is mocked in this film). Byrnes is suspicious of Focker, suffers heart trauma, relaxes the leash he has on his offspring, whatever.
There’s other stuff, too: Owen Wilson playing Owen Wilson (performance flexibility? Clearly not a thing), some really annoying kids running around in the background (for a movie called Little Fockers, you’d think they would get more screen action, but no), and, of course, Blythe Danner’s glazed-over doe eyes (what is with that chick?).
The movie opens with a spitfire of pretty standard 13-year-old-boy jokes – within the first 15 minutes, they’ve covered erectile dysfunction, items being inserted in anuses, “musical condoms” and projectile vomiting. The laughs keep on rolling! It all culminates in a scene where Jessica Alba gets hammered, takes a fuck-load of boner pills and tries to seduce Stiller, who doesn’t even bat an eyelash before dragging her panty-clad ass out of his house. Are you fucking serious, Ben? Forget your kids, if you have a horny, nearly naked, and drugged-up Jessica Alba standing in your living room, you lay the goddamn pipe. And fast, before she passes out. This scene is why half your audience even stayed in the theatre. By the way, good life decision there, Jess. Maybe I’ll try that when I’m bored Wednesday night and I’m fresh out of methamphetamines. Crazy bitch.
But let’s get serious here, people. Let’s mull over the social implications of this film and what it really means when Little Fockers, the third in a series where the main overarching gag is a tasteless pun, does better in the box-office ratings than, say, Black Swan or True Grit. Or anything else. Little Fockers wasn’t a movie. It was a group of very bored and very out-of-work actors making a quick cash-grab before descending into obsolescence, with the support of way-too-trusting production companies.
The exception is Jessica Alba, who’s not going anywhere, not while she’s got that body and particularly not while she’s still willing to make it her entire contribution to any film. Even Dustin Hoffman makes as dwindling an appearance as possible, and honestly, I’m still confounded as to how they roped him into this project in the first place.
If you really like fart jokes, bad repeated puns, Jessica Alba’s tits, and you don’t really care too much about direction, real humour, character development, or feminism, then this one’s for you. Which means, if you’re 12, this one’s for you. Too bad it’s rated PG-13.