Do you remember that one kid from high school, the “wacky guy” who would never shut up, wore slogan t-shirts about ninja monkeys, and was just so zany that you wanted to throttle him? He is this movie. Every contrived aspect of the plot is tailored to be “random” and “silly” and “ire-inducing.” It’s like Mad Libs meets Airplane! meets severe cerebral hemorrhaging.
See, I like my comedy movies like a young Muhammad Ali: they float around, throw a couple jabs here and there, and set you up for a one-two punch that just knocks you on your ass. This film is like an old Muhammad Ali: shaky, unsure of where it’s going, and probably not right to laugh at. Every aspect of the movie feels like it was written by a committee of fourteen-year-old kids. He’s from New Jersey! Isn’t that fucking hilarious? He’s fat and falls down a lot! Fat fucks falling down are always a laugh riot. There are very few redeeming traits to this film, but I’m trying to be fair, so here we go. One is that it clocks in at less than 90 minutes, so at least your suffering won’t last too long. The other is that it’s so poorly written that no lines stick out, to be repeated ad nauseam at frat houses across the world.
PBMC is about the stereotypical mall cop, one who takes his job very seriously. He is, of course, the last line of defense against anyone who would do harm to that shining bastion of America, the Mall. He’s a single father, as his ex-wife, an illegal immigrant, married him in order to get citizenship, and divorced him soon after birthing a daughter (were this a better movie, one might see this as conservative propaganda). He consistently fails at his attempts to become a real cop, as his hypoglycemia constantly causes him to pass out and fall down. His real troubles begin, though, on Black Friday, that most horrid of shopping days, when a gang of credit card thieves, armed with an impressive array of parcours skills, take the mall hostage. Naturally, this is the easiest way to steal credit card numbers, because hacking into a database is for pussies. As the thieves act out an extreme sports competition around him, Blart obliviously drowns his sorrows in a game of Rock Band, and they fail to notice him. Thus, he is THE ONLY PERSON standing between these thieves and… world domination? It’s never really made clear. The ringleader says that he has a bunch of stuff he bought on Amazon.com, and is damned if he’s going to pay for it himself. This is post-Obama America, a socialist paradise where everyone else pays for your shit.
Blart is told to leave the mall and let the professionals handle the hostage situation, but our valiant hero comes to realize that among the hostages are his daughter and his love interest (not the same person, fortunately). Here’s where the “wacky” comes in. Much is made about how he can’t carry a gun, so he uses his utter corpulence to save the day. Who could forget the scene where the air duct he crawls around in falls and crushes a couple henchmen? And what about the mid-speed chase between Blart on a Segway and one of the thieves (who inexplicably has time to pull tricks on his bicycle, but not get away from this fat ambling douchebag)? Have I mentioned lately that he’s fat? And a loser? Because he’s a fat loser. The movie just keeps throwing this in your face. He distracts the head bad guy by throwing hot sauce in his eyes (don’t ask), and while the hostages call for him to do something, he just stands there with a shit-eating grin on his face. An apt metaphor for the movie overall: there are some decent setups for comedy but no one does anything funny.
Of course, everything wraps up nice and dandy, and it seems like Blart has succeeded for the first time in his menial life. He’s offered a post as a cop for his bravery throughout the situation, but he’s perfectly happy to continue as a mall security guard. This is a perfect launching pad for a sequel, an unfortunate inevitability considering the movie did $40 million at the box office in its first weekend. If, during a recession, we are forced to sacrifice our luxuries in favour of the bare necessities, then seeing some sad fat fuck fall down over and over is the lifeblood of the American economy.
~ Jim Martin
