Critic's Grade: F

Frank's film tip: It's not a decent rap for the horrendous hip hop political/racial romantic comedy MARCI X. Word to your mutha!

Well gang, the summer of 2003 continues to roll on consistently with its flawed fare of tasteless flicks. The latest atrocity to hit the big screen with an indifferent thud is the excruciatingly unimaginative racial hip-hop musical/political/romantic satire Marci X. Collaborators Richard Benjamin (direction) and Paul Rudnick (writer) cobbled together what amounts to be an incessantly wretched fiasco about the hostile contemporary music scene and the cultural backlash it creates for a harried media mogul. There's no real wicked edge to Marci X because this interminable movie has no focused cleverness or convincing cutthroat conviction whatsoever. Conveniently congested with contemptuous mind-numbing stereotypes parading around in an incomprehensible plot that is more wooden than Pinocchio's nostrils, this piffle of a motion picture simply takes the cake.

Benjamin, who also co-stars in this frayed farce, helms what may very well be a tremendously clumsy and disastrous dud for the ages. And it's hard to fathom why a capable screenwriter such as Rudnick (Sister Act, In and Out) would conceive a staggeringly inept romp that plays like stale fodder in a nostalgic Luther Campbell/2Live Crew home movie. Heck, Benjamin's torturous narrative isn't even considered viably entertaining next to listening about Tipper Gore agonizing over controversial music labels to combat scandalous lyrics.

Maybe ushering out the likes of Marci X during the appropriate time when it was fashionable to fuss about the onslaught of public criticism regarding this rebellious genre of music may have been somewhat relevant to aid this otherwise pared-down premise. But in an era where hardcore rap music and videos are pretty much the tolerable norm especially amongst the under 30 crowd, Marci X feels like some pointless and tame excursion trying to exploit an old wound. Inexplicably, tolerating the provocative urban melodies of raw rap music is as mainstream as feasting on hot apple pie in Middle America. How will this obtuse flick penetrate or snicker at the sensibilities of an American youth-oriented society that celebrates the alienating antics of a creative outcast like the no holds bar explosiveness of Eminem?

Given the climate of this so-called topical showcase where politics supposedly mingles astutely with race and confrontational musical artistry, you would think that the brand of hot-button jokes and other inside swipes at this particular agenda might register some suggestive gusto. Instead, the barbs aren't divisive or creative enough to set the tone for the movie's lack of cynical wit. There's a hint or two where Benjamin's disjointed exposition wants to explore its anemic irreverence but all it accomplishes is settling for a string of baseless obnoxious scenes for these misguided characters to soak up with embarrassing relish.

Enter Ben Feld (Richard Benjamin), a prosperous Jewish businessman who happens to own, among other things, a successful record company. It's at this particular record company that Feld is being scrutinized courtesy of an ambitious if not opportunistic U.S. senator Mary Ellen Spinkle (Emmy-award winning Christine Baranski) looking to make waves in an effort to empower her political campaign. The target that the snooty moralist politician is looking to take down at the personal expense of millionaire Feld is feisty acid-tongued hip-hop recording artist Dr. S (Damon Wayans). It is apparent that flippant Dr. S and his fondness for spouting out objectionable tunes aren't necessarily going to endear him to the Washington-based right wing contingency. And so because of this pending lynch mob that Senator Spinkle is looking to initiate against Feld based on smut-driven Dr. S's militant musical actions, the man (Feld, that is) succumbs to a medical emergency based on the pressure of this overblown episode.

Soon Feld's enormously privileged New York-based daughter Marci (Lisa Kudrow) arrives on the scene and assumes the responsibility of the maligned company while her sick father is trying to recover from the stress and strain of this whole ordeal. As one might imagine, Marci is predictably spoiled and at times generously flighty (much like Kudrow's well-known Emmy-winning television alter ego Phoebe Buffay from her long-running megahit NBC-TV sitcom Friends). Her mission is clear and concise: Marci must somehow play down the negative vibes and overall bad press pertaining to her father's affiliation with a "disreputable" label. More importantly, she must try to curve the volatile Dr. S by attempting to "soften" his image so that he's presentable to the hungry detractors out there looking to bury them all publicly.

The comedy in Marci X is surprisingly staid for a progressive rabblerousing commentary on the triangular boundaries of political/musical/racial romance. Because the characterizations are unbelievably genuine and sketchy in their exaggerations, there's no sense of purpose or trace of rejuvenating spirit to accept these callous cardboard figures trapped in an unpolished and disposable exercise.

Subsequently, we realize that an artificial urgency is gained from the psychological frivolous fodder that filmmaker Benjamin wants us to consider as comically stimulating. For goodness sake who couldn't telegraph that Kudrow's dippy rich blonde bombshell Marcie would eventually fall head-over-heels for the uncouth ghetto leanings of Wayans's brooding black rapper Dr. S? Or that Baranski's one-note Pat Buchanan-in-high-heels schtick of a crusading conservative femme fatale would be another tepid run-of-the-mill mocking prototype in the entertainingly scathing media age of Fox News' Bill O'Reilly and his inquiring ilk? Or how Benjamin mirthlessly inhabits the one-dimensional mannerisms of a typical wealthy worrywart Jewish businessman catering to the needs of the "inner city" underlings? Hey, whatever.

It's so blasphemous to even imagine what anyone was thinking when committing to this utterly deflating and doomed experience. Inexcusably, Marci X is saddled with long-winded and unfunny musical numbers meant to tap into the silliness of cultural diversity or plagued with rudimentary degrading stereotypes. (The prosperous Jewish American Princess, the threatening and angry loudmouth soulless black gangsta, the stiff-collared powerful politician side-stepping real issues in favor of miniscule ones, air-headed socialites, etc.) Awkwardly conceived in its initial hot-wire poke at censorship and cultural conflict, Marci X is a sheer waste of everybody's consideration on all levels.

Kudrow looks as if she's hindered by the myopic material and we're somewhat indifferent as to how we should view her since she merely goes through the chippy methodical motions in this haphazard hoot of a film. Her Marci Feld persona doesn't have the instant likeable charm or unassuming reassurance say like another pampered princess such as Reese Witherspoon's Elle Woods from the Legally Blonde series. Wayans's stint as the do-as-you-please hothead hip-hopper Dr. S is something that he may have pulled off with ease in his heyday on the sensationalized early 90's variety Fox program In Living Color. However, the sordid routine here is needlessly tired and over-the-top. In fact, Wayans is too old to be playing a rough-around-the-edges gangsta rapper anyway! He's no more convincing here than he was when he played a kidnapped basketball player in that forgettable sports comedy Celtic Pride.

When both Marci and Dr. S finally meet at one of his high-energy concerts and she "wins" him and his audience over with her rhyming and rapping, we are conditioned to the fact that this dysfunctional duo would in fact make for a seemingly ideal odd couple. Their mutual involvement may be offbeat as we are to abruptly interpret but the connection of these two unredeemable souls only makes you want to continuously wince.

The supporting players have nothing to write home about here in this gauzy presentation as well. Baranski (Chicago), a usually marvelous stage/TV/movie actress, is unfairly tainted by her participation in this shoddy showcase. And Jane Krakowski (late of Fox-TV's Ally McBeal) is a Tony-winning performer (like Baranski) stuck in a meaningless backburner role as one of Kudrow's giddy girlfriends on board to witness the uneventful happenings. In a feeble bid to create more tension that might ruin Marci's chances to lasso Dr. S's hardened heart, the rapper's skeptical girlfriend (Paula Garces) is hopelessly on the sideline observing the gradual acceptance of this "pushy materialistic white chick".

One thing is for certain, the presence of Marci X is an undeniable filmmaking freak of nature; an insufferable and useless quasi-comedy that makes the recently released offerings of the unthinkable Gigli and My Boss's Daughter look like Godfather I and II. Do yourself a favor and hang out at the racetrack with Bill Bennett and Newt Gingrich--you'll have better time to kill.

Frank rates this film: * star (out of 4 stars)

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