So I'm not exactly what you'd call a "movie person." I've never used the IMDB, I don't follow films three years before they're released, and I'd probably only ever care about the Oscars if I were in them myself, which, believe me, ain't gonna happen. So when I hear about Hollywood's latest chick-flick directorial skidmark or multi-racial buddy comedy with big shiny guns and exploding things (Liek OMFG he iz whiTe and The otHur onez black!!!! they wIll surely haves the funninest of situataions!!!! LOLOLOLOLOLz11!1!!!!!11!), I could really give less than half a shit. About one fifth of a shit, actually, closer to 18% of a shit. But then Matt tells me about a movie that is coming out which is based on one of the few things in this world I don't want to set fire to: the British sci-fi comedy series Red Dwarf. I wasn't happy about this. Granted, it would be orgasmic to see Lister and crew's hijinks (both zany and not) on the big screen, but I seriously don't think that's going to happen. I'm afraid of the Red Dwarf movie, and I'll tell you why.
When I think "British television comedy" and "movie adaptation" together, one single, element of pain and suffering stabs the center of my mind with ice picks of flaming death. There's one thing that prevents me from enjoying the prospect, and limitless potential to be hilarious that this new movie has. Quite possibly the worst film adaptation since A Clockwork "Like WTF he's all evil and rapes and shit" Orange.
Bean.
I had high hopes for Bean. Two hours of Rowan Atkinson is rarely a wasted two hours (unless you're watching four episodes of the first season of Blackadder), and Mr. Bean is a beloved, BELOVED character of mine. You plop Mr. Bean down into the middle of the Antarctic, and in five minutes he's offending the shit out of penguins, and you've both ruptured some organ in your torso and pissed yourself from laughter. In my eyes, you couldn't fuck with Mr. Bean. Everything that character touched was solid, 24-karat gold.
I underestimated the Hollywood Shit Machine. They could fuck the Virgin Mary through 18 feet of tungsten carbide.
The problem with Bean is simple. Everyone I know who saw the damn movie could see it, and I know some pretty stupid people. The plot summarizes the problem perfectly: "Mr. Bean is sent to America." They took a great British character, with great British humor, and stuck him in a shitty American plot. British comedy and American comedy don't mix. Taking Mr. Bean and placing him into an American movie plot is like assembling a jigsaw puzzle by dumping the pieces onto the table and hitting them with a hammer until they're all together. You've got kitten bits in the waterfall, flowers stuck through the butterflies, and a whole ass-load of shitty, gray-brown cardboard.
I could summarize the plot of Mr. Bean, and as much as I hate you all, I just can't bring myself to torture you so cruelly. I'll just say that Atkinson was fabulous for the screen time he was given (the first 15 minutes of which was TAKEN RIGHT OUT OF THE SERIES), but he was basically second fiddle to the wormy little guy from Ghostbusters II and his "Wonderful World of Disney" family problems. Oh no! Uptight Wormy Guy has a REBELLIOUS DAUGHTER!! To hell with that, show more of Mr. Bean humping the hand dryer. At least that hasn't been done eight thousand times before by a bunch of no-talent hack writers more worried about their salad order in fucking Spago then they are about telling stories.
I swear to god, give me a shot at Hollywood, and I'll be at the top in about twenty minutes. Well, only because I'd have beaten everyone else to death with my handy "+4 bat-with-screws-in-it," but still.
By the way, the bat? I call it "counterpoint." It's my only friend.
Mr. Bean could make Auschwitz funny, but he takes a backseat to a second rate, hastily thrown together script that was most likely sitting around the producer's office for a few months. The whole Whistler's Mother thing could be stuck into a sequel to fucking Ghost Dad, and it would fit perfectly. Just take out Rowan Atkinson, and stick in Bill Cosby. Boom, instant slack comedy, fun for the whole family, two thumbs up their asses. Fuck you, America! Me and the missus are moving to Singapore and watching this whole God forsaken country suck itself into Los Angeles's rapidly expanding mental black hole. Then I'll toss back a Tiger beer, and laugh for a good twenty minutes.
Then I'll most likely hit something with my bat. I love that bat.