Goldmember (2002)
Cast: Mike Myers, Michael Caine, Beyonce Knowles, Seth Green
Director: Jay Roach
Synopsis: Third instalment of 60's 70's spoof has long run out of gas and charm
Reviewed by: Omar Khan

 

Over the years, one could usually rely upon London's prestigious entertainment guides to point one towards the worthwhile and steer one away from the dire. There was the rather dry but dependable What's On, and for the last twenty-odd years, Time Out has generally performed that task admirably.

Which makes its review of Austin Powers in Goldmember all the more astonishing.

Not only was it hopelessly misleading, but it managed to inflict a sizeable dent upon the magazine's credibility—at least in these eyes. Unfortunately, Time Out was not alone. The normally reliable Guardian also appeared to suffer a spectacular lapse of judgement, lavishing praise upon what ultimately turned out to be little more than one long and particularly odious fart.

Time Out even claimed that Mike Myers had reached the level of "Peter Sellers at his peak", while The Guardian suggested that the film was more visually exciting, more interesting and even more intelligent than anything else released during the summer of 2002.

One scarcely knows where to begin.

If those comparisons are to be taken seriously, then either mainstream Hollywood had reached the bottom of an extraordinarily deep barrel, or several otherwise sensible critics had temporarily taken leave of their senses.

To compare the admittedly inconsistent genius of Peter Sellers with Mike Myers based on Goldmember borders on sacrilege.

Think of Sellers' sublime telephone conversation with the Soviet Premier in Dr Strangelove, one of the greatest comic scenes ever filmed, and then compare it with Myers' brand of humour here, which consists largely of an endless procession of jokes revolving around bodily functions and excrement.

The contrast is almost embarrassing.

The original Austin Powers possessed a certain freshness and charm. By the time The Spy Who Shagged Me arrived, much of that charm had already evaporated. I remember sitting through that film in a New York cinema, repeatedly glancing at my watch barely ten minutes after it had begun and desperately willing it to end. By the time the closing credits finally arrived, I escaped the theatre wondering whether advancing age had simply turned me into an irredeemable old grouch incapable of appreciating modern comedy.

Watching the delightful Heartbreakers shortly afterwards reassured me that this was thankfully not the case.

American comedy still had life in it.

Unfortunately, after reading the extravagant praise being showered upon Goldmember, I once again allowed myself to be persuaded by critics I normally trusted.

More fool me.

Apart from the mildly amusing opening sequence, with its parade of celebrity cameos, there is remarkably little to enjoy. Myers appears to be recycling the same joke for the third consecutive film, while the screenplay—largely his own work—feels little more than an overextended collection of Saturday Night Live sketches stitched together with increasingly desperate toilet humour.

The laughter surrounding me during the screening became almost surreal. I found myself trying to force the occasional chuckle simply because the rest of the audience appeared to be convulsing with laughter. Peer pressure is a curious thing.

It didn't work.

The film remains relentlessly puerile, relying almost exclusively upon jokes about bodily functions, exaggerated English stereotypes and characters who long ago ceased being amusing.

Michael Caine sleepwalks effortlessly through the role of Austin's father, collecting what was no doubt a very healthy pay cheque. Beyoncé Knowles is perfectly likeable as Foxxy Cleopatra but is given almost nothing of substance to do, although her scene involving Nathan Lane raises one of the evening's few genuine smiles.

The numerous celebrity cameos—Tom Cruise, Gwyneth Paltrow, Britney Spears, Steven Spielberg, Danny DeVito, Quincy Jones and others—provide fleeting moments of amusement, but they merely decorate an otherwise desperately thin comedy.

Fat Bastard remains every bit as unfunny as before. Dr Evil has worn out his welcome, and Myers' latest creation, Goldmember, proves to be the least amusing of the lot, relying upon humour so crude and stereotypical that even Mind Your Language might have thought twice.

The film finally reaches rock bottom when Mini-Me drops his trousers in one of the most excruciatingly unfunny sequences imaginable. Mercifully, the audience is spared the full anatomical revelation.

Small blessings.

Perhaps my reaction has been made all the harsher because I genuinely expected something worthwhile after reading the ecstatic reviews.

Instead, I felt completely duped.

The public, of course, disagreed spectacularly. The film opened to well over $70 million in North America alone, virtually guaranteeing that another sequel would soon follow.

Poor Peter Sellers must surely have been revolving gently in his grave after hearing his name invoked in connection with humour of this calibre.

At least I wasn't entirely alone.

Cosmo Landesman of The Sunday Times awarded the film the almost unheard-of distinction of no stars whatsoever, dismissing it as "an MTV guide to Englishness for the pimply, pleasure-seeking youth of America."

If you loved The Spy Who Shagged Me, then you'll almost certainly adore Goldmember.

The rest of us would probably be better advised to stay at home and watch Dr. Strangelove instead.