Starring Jerry O'Connell and Shannon Elizabeth
Aghast at the lack of subtlety? Don't be. With movies like "Tomcats" (Columbia, R), any hope for wit, romantic language or insight will feast on cuisine of nothing. Instead, helping upon helping of tasteless jokes, shock-value situations and a minimalistic plot are heaped onto the unsuspecting viewer just hoping to see a little skin.
But no, there's not even much of that, save Jerry O'Connell's posterior.
And save O'Connell we shall. The likable guy could really be something, if he could lose about 20 years and gain a few pounds. Seriously, he can do as good or better than "Stand By Me," and no, "Joe's Apartment" doesn't count.
But "Tomcats" promotes such feelings of unspeakable anguish that sentences don't seem to do justice. It would be like having Jake Busey gnawing off your ear, wanting him to stop, but not knowing how to reason with the buffoon.
The joke (not funny) of a plot revolves around a rag-tag bunch of ladies' men. Their goal: To sleep with every connivable woman in the world. And because bets have focused on far less academic things, a gentlemen's bet commences. This time, to separate it from silent film counterparts, mutual fund options are included, with the total climbing to $500,000.
After seven years, only Kyle (Busey) and Michael (O'Connell) remain untied to the ol' ball and chain (wink wink, nudge nudge). Kyle takes every gigolo stereotype and runs with it, while Michael uses the women but wants to be well-liked, as well. One of the few interesting aspects is watching two lady-killers with completely different personalities.
This unromantic fear of marriage will disgust anyone with even a joking belief in marriage and true love. After a perilous trip to Las Vegas, Michael must come up with the money, which includes the ingenious idea of setting up bachelor Kyle with a male ideal, Natalie (Shannon Elizabeth), a tough cop with a superfluous soft side.
The only belief confirmed by the bet includes that line that starts with "men" and ends with "pigs." Kyle, particularly, postures and prances in his mating dance, surrounded by mindless girls falling for some unseen charms.
Hold on, let's stop the critical posturing. NO ONE expects insights from "Tomcats," and there's no alarms and no surprises. Well, not quite. Some scenes are quite surprising in their utter disregard for good taste. Let's just say laws should be passed outlawing octagenarians from appearing in S&M garb.
How could "Tomcats" improve? Adding at least one laugh-out-loud moment would help. Also, building on the sweetness between Michael and Natalie would help. And even though cutting it would make the movie about one hour in length, the abomination known as the "testicular cancer" scene should never be shown again. Let's leave it at that.
Maybe the mysterious wording about the plot is intriguing. Maybe that crazy little thought remains, chanting "It can't be that bad." Yes, it can. Only a comparison with "Whipped" saves "Tomcats" from the zero-star realm.
Subtlety is dead, and "Tomcats" helped kill it.
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