Judge David Johnson would rather shrink himself down and live in a urinal than watch this movie again.
His mom is dating the suspect. Let the surveillance begin.
I hate this movie.
Facts of the Case
FBI Agent Henry Durand (Colin Hanks, Orange County) loves his mom (Meg Ryan), overweight, slothful, and helpless as she is. But when he comes back from a three year assignment and finds her a bona fide MILF, he doesn't know what to do. Now she's dating young guys, having wild, vocal sex, riding motorcycles, and wooing mysterious strangers that look like Antonio Banderas (Antonio Banderas). Henry is uneasy with his mom's new swinging status, and things get a lot uneasier when the FBI suspects her new beau—Tommy, that would be Banderas—is involved in an art theft ring and Henry's assigned to lead the surveillance task force.
You know what that means: Lots of awkward moments involving bugged rooms and intercourse; snickers and mommy jokes from incredibly professional FBI Agents; Colin Hanks making faces because he hates listening to his mom confess her love for her boyfriend, but really looks like he's constipated; and a tacked-on action sequence at the very end that will do nothing to override the overwhelming waves of nausea and malice you'll be feeling while you watch this insufferable turd.
I consider myself a mildly effective writer, able to transmit my thoughts on a particular subject with clarity and precision. When you finish one of my reviews, agree or disagree, at the very least you'll know exactly where I stand. That said, I don't have the talent or the skill set to accurately relate how deep my dislike for My Mom's New Boyfriend goes.
After thinking about it, the best I can do is this: If My Mom's New Boyfriend was a pomegranate, I would stomp on it, feed the remains to my dog, and give my dog away to a family in Iran. That was clumsy and hyperbolic, but that's what happens after 90 minutes of mental torture masquerading as home entertainment. Your mind gets tattooed.
This movie fails on so many levels, it's almost impossible to know where to begin. How about the premise itself: That the FBI would mandate one of its agents to run a surveillance operation on his own mother—conflict of interest-be-damned—and forbidding said agent to tell anyone, not even his fiancée who also happens to be in the FBI. If that's the standard operating procedure the Patriot Act has wrought, then maybe I need to send a donation to Harry Reid's re-election campaign. (The very fact that I wrote that last sentence should be proof enough of the amount of violence this movie inflicted upon my cerebral cortex.) The FBI, as portrayed here, does little to instill confidence in this nation's most elite crime-fighting force, with everyone from the division commander down to the horny middle-schoolers remarking how hot Henry's mom is.
Unless…is that supposed to be comedy? Are the never-ending cracks about her boobs and butt designed to elicit laughter from me? Ah, perhaps it is. That would explain why these lines are repeated ad nauseum—not to advance any kind of story but because they're recurring jokes! Either that or Meg Ryan has a clause in her contract that dictates any film she appears in must be packed full of male characters incessantly complimenting her looks. I think she might, but does it have to be so obvious? We get it Meg, you're a fine-looking woman for your age. We don't need an entire movie built around that conceit. Conceit! What an appropriate word! Hey, this writing thing is coming along!
If this optical abortion drives another nail into Meg Ryan's suffering career, it might preemptively neuter young Colin Hanks' before it gets off the ground. This guy is unbearable. While much of the blame can be laid at the feet of the atrocious script, his manic performance is as funny as a chicken dying a slow, painful death and twice as earsplitting. The guy's comedic repertoire is limited to screaming at his fellow FBI Agents, saying "No mom!" loudly, and acting buffoonish and awkward in front of his hot girlfriend (Selma Blair, with nothing to do). The only one who doesn't embarrass himself is Antonio Banderas, but maybe that's because his cool accent distracted me from any further horror.
If you care, the video transfer is decent (full frame and 2.40:1 anamorphic widescreen are your choices) and the sound (5.1 English and French) works. Extras include deleted scenes and a masturbatory featurette with the actors talking about how great it is to work with each other, oblivious to the fact that they're all party to an amazingly inept and aggressively terrible viewing experience.
Run away and never look back! Leave me! Save yourself!
Guilty. So very, very guilty.
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