'Super-OK'

It’s a little-known literary fact that Robert Burns’ poem, ‘Ode to a Mouse’ originally read:

“The best plans of men to get laid do often go awry.”

Burns’ stuffy publisher told him to ‘tone it down’ to make the now-famous little ditty more marketable.

But whatever the translation, either would apply to the plot of “Superbad,” the new comedy from the Judd Apatow camp, which looks to tighten its grip on Hollywood comedies, between this film, the summer’s earlier hit “Knocked Up,” and 2005’s “40-Year-Old Virgin.”

While Apatow did not direct this one as he did the previous two (he passed the responsibility to longtime collaborator Greg Mattola), his fingerprints are all over it.

The film once again follows misfit man-boys on a quest to make sense of the opposite sex. This time, the quest takes place over the course of one high school evening and the leads are two horny teens, Seth (played by the beefy Jonah Hill) and Evan (played by the gangly Michael Cera).

Many have praised this film for carefully balancing its smut with its heart. And, frankly, I don’t buy into the latter, at least in terms of compassion for the females. The treacle tossed in at the film’s finale of both boys respecting the objects of their desires – after everyone thoroughly objectifies women throughout the film’s running time – just doesn’t wash.”I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry” got raked over the coals this summer for similar treatment toward gays, but somehow “Superbad” has been given a pass.

This is not to say that the film is not funny. For it is – both feverishly and frequently. But why even try to give a boys hearts when there’s nothing to hang their heart on?

(Speaking of “heart on,” be prepared for one of the most obsessive predilection of male genitalia this side of a porno.)

After all this ribaldry, why do the producers feel that our heroes must Learn Something or Grow and allow them to Get the Girl? Did John Belushi’s Bluto take away a life lesson after his years in Delta House? Did Jeff Spicoli learn to “just say no” by the end of his “Fast Times?”
No dammit. They were hedonistic jackasses. And they felt more real because of it.

Apatow has a very sharp ear for male-male friendships throughout awkward times in their lives (in “Virgin” it’s middle age, in “Knocked Up,” it’s pregnancy and here it’s high school). But what he has yet to find is what draws women to these clueless dolts. Really, only Carell's virgin was deserving of a female companion.

If you thought Seth Rogan (who wrote the screenplay and co-stars as a crazy cop) was an unlikely bed partner for the sexy Katherine Heigl in “Knocked Up,” you’ll have a helluva time trying to figure out what Emma Stone’s hot, hip Jules sees in Hill’s slovenly profane Seth.
In the words of the immortal Dean Wormer (rest in peace), “Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life.”

There are two true finds in “Superbad,” and one has already been found by a select few who adored the brilliant, short-lived TV show “Arrested Development” (rest in peace). Michael Cera, who some remember as the stammering straight-arrow George Michael (he who harbored the unholy crush on his cousin), plays basically the same character with awkward Evan. Except here, you get to hear him swear up a storm. Cera’s stock is sure to rise in the months following this film, as his unique dry approach is a throwback to early Bob Newhart, and is sorely lacking in comedy today.

The other standout is Christopher Mintz-Plasse as Fogell. In the pantheon of teen sex comedies, many a one-named co-star has earned immortal status – Booger, Bluto, Meat, Stifler, Spicoli. Be prepared to add another to its hallowed halls – McLovin. For that is the name Fogell arbitrarily decides to rechristen himself upon receiving a fake ID that lists him as a 25-year-old Hawaiian organ donor.

Plucked from obscurity, you can see role of geeky outsider Mintz-Plasse fits very snugly on the actor, making his performance all the more authentic. You wish the same care had been given to the ladies that populate the film, or that they were ditched altogether.

McLovin spends the majority of the time riding in the back of a cop car commandeered by two wildly inappropriate arms of the law (Rogan and “SNL’s” Bill Hader). And as outlandish as the cops’ behavior may seem, the film called to mind similar high school shenanigans a buddy and I had with a sad, lonely night security guard at a port in Virginia Beach. He had no problems volunteering to get videotaped joyfully putting a billy-clubbing, handcuffing smackdown on yours truly.

So I invite the makers to bring on the zaniness – the carefree, empty-headed escapades that accompany adolescence and show us that you care as much for the women as you do for the lads and the, um, equipment. Otherwise, don’t feel obligated to employ tacked-on morals as a result of their ribaldry.

For it only waters down the drinks at what could be one heck of a fun party.

There is no rush to see this 'Hour'

I can't do it.

I can't even muster up the courage to say, “Well, at least Chris Tucker is back up on the big screen again.”

Really, that was my only hope for “Rush Hour 3,” the most cliched, hackneyed, watered down, homogenized slice of big-budget drivel to be coughed out of a computer in recent memory. And this is coming from a fan of the series.

Every cliché is covered, every plot point is clearly mapped. They don't even bother to reheat these leftovers. They are just served cold.

This film is a swimming pool in Jackie Chan's back yard. It's a new Ferrari for Chris Tucker's garage. It's an escort service debt paid off for director Brett Ratner.

What it is not, is entertainment. Everyone involved in this bloated, belated sequel makes as little an effort as possible to fill the franchise's six-year absence (not that anyone was particularly longing for another installment).

As mentioned I truly enjoyed the first films, appreciating them for their breezy chemistry between Jackie Chan's Keaton-esque physicality and Tucker's motor-mouthed histrionics. It was derivative, but there was just enough humor and heart to buoy it above the fray.

But there is never a moment during “Rush Hour 3's” run time that convinces me that everyone was in this for something other than a paycheck. Hell, this may even classify as a zombie movie the way everyone – and I mean behind the camera as well – seems to have lumbered about like a somnambulist convention.

You can rattle off the buddy-movie bromides with ease:

1. 
   Humor derived from ethnic stereotypes.
2. 
   Horribly trained henchmen who can't hit the side of a barn at three feet.
3. 
   A bound-and-gagged female hostage.
4. 
   Wherever Tucker and Chan travel in the world (this time, France), the only black and Asian females in the room flirt with them.
5. 
   The third-person shooter who, out of nowhere, kills a bad guy mere nanoseconds before said evildoer is to shoot our hero.
6. 
   The chief villain's expository speech before attempting to kill the heroes.
7. 
   The duplicitous government agent who at first seems like a helpful fella.
8. 
   The closing door that our hero narrowly slides under seconds before closing.
9. 
   A gun being out of ammo just as the dramatic music swells to a crescendo.
10. 
    The ubiquitous, unnecessary car chase.

Sadly, the list could continue. But since screenwriter Jeff Nathanson obviously put no effort into this, neither will I.

And if sheer boredom from these tired formulas don't work, “Rush Hour 3” seems as though it's trying to be offensive. I am far from a prude and an admirer of his work, but what was the reason to cast the reclusive director Roman Polanski, a convicted rapist of a 13 year old, as a jelly-fingered Parisian cop who performs a cavity search on our heroes then winks at them when they later complain about it?

There was a little-seen film released last year called “Idiocracy,” which (quite hilariously) depicted the dumbing down of our culture in the near future. The most popular film of the year (which went on to win the Oscar)? “Ass,” a shot of a hieney for two hours that would occasionally pass gas or get scratched or something. After viewing “Rush Hour 3,” I yearn for “Ass 2: Breaking the Wind.”

Tucker was a talented man before he decided to sell his celluloid soul to become some wide-eyed buffoon ... Here is the site for the Chris Tucker Foundation ( http://www.christuckerfoundation.org/), which promises to give help to children of South Africa infected with HIV.

I urge you, if you are contemplating even renting “Rush Hour 3” on DVD, donate your money here instead.