Fantastical Andrew Fox

Yes, 2011 is just a little more than half over, but I have probably seen the worst family film of the year. This reeking hairball was so abysmal, I challenge any other studio to release something as bad in the next five and a half months.

I’ve gotten into the habit of taking my kids and Dara to the Family Drive-In in Stephens City, Virginia. We’ve been five times now. It’s a bit of a schlep — about an eighty-minute drive from our house — but it’s a great Saturday evening outing. The vibe at the drive-in is pure late 1960s, early 1970s. Every time I drive through the gate, I half expect the lot to be filled with Chevy Caprices and Chevelles and Ford Galaxies and Dodge Coronets, rather than the Honda Pilots and Toyota Siennas and Chevy Traverses that are actually parked there, their open hatches facing the screens. Every time we’ve ever gone, the place has been teeming with families. The parents are all very considerate of one another and the racing clumps of kids. You get a double feature for $7.50 (adults) or $3.50 (kids under 12), which is a great honking deal. Plus, you get Ye Olde Playground of Death, a well-preserved example of early 1970s hard steel playground architecture straight out of my elementary school’s recess yard. Forget the softly curved plastics and rubber bumpers that are de rigor today; this playground is pretty no-nonsense about its ability to put out a kid’s eye if the kid gets too adventurous. Soft, yielding ground cover of wood chips or rubber pellets made from recycled tires? HAH! How about dirt? And not dirt meant to cushion a fall, but dirt that resulted from decades of little sneakers wearing away the grass. There are monkey bars that look like an Andy Warhol-inspired prison or the bones of a courthouse from wartime Dresden. There’s a tall, steep slide that is welded to a set of swings on one side and a chin-up bar on the other, the confluence inviting all sorts of acrobatic mischief. There are horsey swings with grasping steel hinges and chains that foretell the amputation of little fingers. Needless to say, my kids love the place.

Anyway, last night’s double feature was Cars 2 and The Zookeeper. I knew there was no way I would get through the summer without taking the boys to see Cars 2. It was mandatory. That film was non-objectionable and occasionally entertaining. The second feature, however, was a whole different animal. This was Kevin James’s follow-on to that cinema classic, Mall Cop. I hadn’t read any reviews, so I went in blind; the boys had seen previews on their favorite TV station, Cartoon Network, and they were fairly jazzed to see it. I’m not a snob when it comes to children’s movies. I’m generally content to sit there and absorb whatever I can, so long as the boys are enjoying themselves. Rio was fine by me. Diary of A Wimpy Kid was worth my expenditure of ninety minutes. Rango was unexpectedly delightful, a film I wouldn’t mind watching another couple of times. But The Zookeeper. . . I simply find it hard to imagine who in Hollywood would ever have green-lighted this misbegotten cross between Eddie Murphy’s Dr. Doolittle and The Water Boy. Even given the lame premise, that a hapless, lovelorn zookeeper is given romantic advice by the talking animals inhabiting his workplace, the script writers and actors did amazingly little to bring out what comedic potential the premise may have had. How can scenes of a fat man variously peeing on a tree, making an aggressive bullfrog face to intimidate a romantic rival, and splitting his pants fail to elicit laughter from six year-old and seven year-old boys? Is that physically possible? Asher, my six year-old, may have snickered just a little bit; he swears he did, although I didn’t hear him (and I was listening). But for Levi, my seven year-old, not to laugh at all? Levi is the type of kid who laughs so loud in a movie that half the audience turns around to stare. Yet all he wanted to do was go home and go to sleep.

I discovered later, looking at a round-up of reviews (15% “fresh” on Rotten Tomatoes) that the producers, in a forlorn attempt to make the film relevant and entertaining for audience members older than four, had hired an eclectic cast of former A-list stars to do voice acting for the animals. The lion and lioness were voiced, respectively, by Sylvester Stallone and Cher. Had I not read this, I would have had no idea. I was so appalled by the dialogue coming from those CGI-animated feline lips that I had no mental energy left to ponder whom the voices might belong to or where I recognized them from.

Most tellingly, this was the first time in my entire forty-three year history of moviegoing that I ever felt embarrassed for a subject of product placement. The unlucky victim in this case was TGI Friday’s Restaurants. There is a scene involving Kevin James and a talking gorilla set in a TGI Friday’s that made me cringe. I actually felt sorry for the corporate executives and all the stockholders, it was such a humiliation for them. And I don’t even like the restaurant.

The only member of my family who might possibly have enjoyed the film, Judah, my four year-old, fell asleep about ten minutes in.

Don’t ask me how the movie ended. I overruled Asher’s objections and we left after about an hour. I have an appointment to get two wisdom teeth sawed out my head this Thursday. I view that coming appointment with more positive anticipation than I would seeing the last half hour of The Zookeeper.