Opens April 7, 2000

Knuckleheads are often fun and hilarious, but boneheads usually aren't unless they're so dumb as to be actually smart. Unfortunately, this attempt at dumb humor is merely stupid as writer Steve Brill attempts to heave a Dumb and Dumber-style comedy into the widely popular and moronic world of professional wrestling. Undeniably, there's a lot of potential here for low humor and there's a lot of us out there who go for that kind of thing. If the AFI really had it together, they'd make a TV show containing the 100 Greatest Fart Jokes in movie history and make a fortune selling the foreign rights in Germany. Unfortunately, the flatulence here is just plain flat, the humor just plain lame - it's not good dumb but annoying dumb. On a purely aesthetic level, this poop is stale gas.

The coolest thing about this fartFilm is that the lead characters are deadbeats: Gordie (David Arquette) and Sean (Scott Caan) live at home, strike out with the girls, and literally shovel sh** for a living. Luckily, they've got vicarious lives and live their dreams, like many dunderheads everywhere, through professional sports. In this case, the filmmakers have wisely chosen the dumbest of the sports, the sham of pro wrestling, as their satiric setting. (One can almost see the inspiration for the film churning: What sport is dumber than bowling - Kingpins made some decent dough - so, let's copy and up the ante and go one notch lower - pro wrestling.

Besides, wrestling is old-time drama: It's good vs. evil, and in this modern age, it's probably the only arena in which the "good" guy wins with any degree of regularity. However, screenwriter Steven Brill has gotten one too cute here. He's made his good-guy a common lout, an ungrateful dolt who has garnered his fame and fortune only through the shady promotion of the wrestling world. Even Don King wouldn't represent this "king." While propping up such a doofus as champion might be a sly takeoff on the nature of hero-dom in this Nike-age, it's one turn too cute for this butt-blast. And, even dumber, the not-so-creative team here have selected Oliver Platt to play the champion wrestler, Jimmy King.

While Platt may be slightly better in shape than the rest of us, he's no buffed, steroid-pumped wrestler. In fact, it's a shame he wasn't cast as a bowler in Kingpins, given his physique. Yet, in his kingly wrestling costume, complete with flowing gown and crown, he resembles more the type of "king" who would greet you at the all-you-can-eat buffet at the Excalibur Hotel in Vegas than across the ring from Hulk Hogan or Jesse Ventura. They'd never elect him to anything in Minnesota, but at least we're spared seeing him in tights in this low Rumble.

Anyway, it's the mission of Gordie and Sean to restore his crown, not only that, but restore his faith in himself. So, the plot (which is appropriately as thin as a wrestling-match scenario) centers on the two poop purveyors driving around trying to track down Jimmy so they can pump him up enough to get a rematch. Along the way, we meet the detritus of Jimmy's past: an oafish ex-wife, squirrelly offspring, and nutty parents. Nobody much likes him.

Not surprisingly, they track him down in a trailer park, guzzling cheap booze. Anyway, you don't need exactly a nose for storytelling, but only to have eaten a plate of sauerkraut and a tub of beans, to sniff out where this one is going.

Despite the fact this thing is not about plot, it's also not much about character. Platt is not the only player here who's been hammered to the mat by Brill's padded writing. Comic leads David Arquette and Scott Caan have no comedic personalities, in large part due to the thin caricature nature of the writing. Comically, the duo offer little more than the most rudimentary of muggings. While they're decked out as a dimwitted, battling pair in the grand old slapstick, Hardy-to-Carrey tradition, they've got no comedic spark. Without Jim Carrey's rubbery face or Jeff Daniels confused expressions, they're not even a serviceable reproduction of their copycat characters They're no more funny or flamboyant than a couple of good-looking jocks doing a beer commercial. Where is Terry Bradshaw when we really need him? As clowns, they'd even rank a notch below George W. Busch and Al Gore. Plus, if Gore did some dancing, they'd be blown away in the slapstick arena, as well.

Stock-part morons further constipate the film: a hyper highway patrolman, a horny old lady, and brawny beefcakes of all sexual persuasions. Still, there's a lot of okay stuff in it on a purely technical level. It's set mainly in Wyoming and other than some California freeways in the background, it kind of looks like Wyoming. Best, the costumes are perfect, and on the right people are appropriately skimpy. Boys, young and old, will be inspired by the plummery. Seriously, director Brian Robbins has an eye for the panorama of sports (Varsity Blues), and catches all the "color," and, indeed in the great Andy Sidaris sportscasting tradition, includes a number of "honey shots."

We're trying to heave in some more compliments and come up with some other good things to say before we finally flush this review onto the net. Oh, we're thankful that Smell-A-Rama never caught on.