By: Mashaal Mir

Director – John Whitesell

Starring – Martin Lawrence, Brandon T. Jackson, Jessica Lucas

Cinema Release – Out now

Certificate – PG

Gays.co.uk Rating

Almost a decade ago, the first Big Momma movie was released. I admit that I found it enjoyable: Martin Lawrence was entertaining, there was something humorous about a guy in a fat suit, and the movie had some funny moments. Then the second instalment was released: not as funny, but worth a watch on a lazy Sunday.  Now, the third movie has hit theatres and, honestly, you’re better off watching the trailer – therein lies all you need to know.

The story follows Malcolm Turner (Martin Lawrence), a federal agent working on a case to take down Russian mobster Chirkoff (“Chirk-off”. Get it?). Unfortunately, the case’s main informant is killed by the Russian; an act witnessed by Tucker’s stepson Trent (Brandon T. Jackson); an aspiring rapper chasing a recording contract so he can quit college.

Hunting the missing flash drive that will incriminate Chirkoff, Tucker goes undercover – once again as Big Momma – at an all-girls arts academy whilst Trent, whose life is in danger, must similarly pose as Tucker’s great-niece Charmaine.

This third instalment in the trilogy is dreadfully unfunny which was obvious in a quiet theatre. For a comedy, the movie failed to inspire laughs; save a cackle here or there.

As per usual, direction aimed the movie at teenagers, incorporating young love; rap music; and a hackneyed parents just don’t understand essence but it wouldn’t be surprising if the movie tanked in that age range as well.  It lacked any genuine humour, funny moments, or witty dialogue that made the first chapters bearable. Even by soft comedy’s ropey standards, it lacked a storyline which wasn’t saved by cringeworthy song performances that made the High School Musical soundtrack resemble a Broadway performance. Yes, they were that bad.

More than others, I’ve always had room for Martin Lawrence. His stand up comedy was raw – and shamefully funny – and he was a gem in Bad Boys, but nothing could save his mundane performance in this movie. It wasn’t his acting which tanked the film, nor was it the uninspiring cliche of Brandon T. Jackson’s Trent, but a script so vacant that Lawrence’s enthusiasm (which propelled the two previous efforts) has visibly and audibly diminished. So hopefully, this is the last time we’ll see Martin Lawrence, or any other man for that matter, in a cross-dress fat-suit.

Do yourself a favour and don’t spend your £9 watching two guys dressed up as women for 107 minutes. You’ll get more amusement watching two episodes of Jersey Shore at full volume with a dirty hangover.