was a staple of many American Indian diets. They often dried corn
and mashed it in a mortar (a stone bowl) using a pestle (a stone
hand tool with a rounded end), making cornmeal for breads and
you look at the skulls of American Indians from the last few hundred
years, you'll notice that many times the molars are often worn
flat with the gum line. That is because the maize they ate contained
small pebbles and sand that wore off of the mortar and pestle.
Over time, and undetected, those bits of stone wore the Indians'
molars down to smooth stubs. The Indians probably never noticed
their teeth getting flatter because each additional meal created
negligible changes. But one day, one of them probably stuck a
finger in his mouth when a tooth cracked and thought, "What the
movies like You, Me and Dupree has the same effect on the
human soul. They grind you down in a million little, grating ways
until your existence is flat and small. You don't notice the wear
when you're sitting in the theater, but one night you're lying
on your couch and you find yourself laughing at a rerun of Boy
Meets World and you think, "What the fuck? When did my sense
of taste get so ground down that I'll sit here and take this shit
like a series of boots to the head?"
Me and Dupree is so brainless, pointless and tired it'll grate
a layer off your soul and your will to live. Fuck, the people
who made it must have already ground theirs into nothingness.
There ain't a damn thing that stands out that I can point to and
say "This is why it sucks," it just the sense of malaise and sorrow
I got from seeing so much fucking money and time spent on something
so pointless and wimpy.
me, it's as fucking wimpy as a chess president dumped by his tuba-playing
girlfriend. In fact, I can't think of a God damn reason to recommend
You, Me and Dupree, unless you have a thing for pussy-whipped
men and personality-free whining. Because that's all you're getting.
Dull Matt Dillon plays a boring professional newly married to
dull Kate Hudson, a dud of a schoolteacher with a rich father,
but who can make every man wither under her glare. This is not
a special quality she has, it is apparently the way all men react
to women. In Dupres's world, marriage means you never get
to have fun, and get your nuts snipped off, and you do whatever
the woman says. If you don't, you have hell to pay. Maybe that's
the way it is for some of you, but that's because you're fucking
comes wacky Owen Wilson, the titular Dupree, to spice things up.
He's unemployed and needs a place to live, and Dillon agrees to
let him stay with the newlyweds, who apparently need to have lots
of sex because... why? Surely she lived in his wimpy-ass house
before they locked up. His wackiness causes all sorts of problems.
He burns down the house, gets into a hidden porn stash (no, we
don't get to see a single moment of these surely-better flicks),
and draws out Dillon's animal male side. See, because in shitty,
soul-crushing movies that seek to do nothing new, men love sports
and women love shopping. Or kittens, or orphans. But never anal
though by formula, though, Wilson becomes beloved for his sincerity,
and he's the glue that keeps Dillon and Hudson's fledgling marriage
together. Oh, thank God. It was touch and go there for a few seconds
during the opening credits.
Hudson and Wilson go through the entire movie with their shoulders
slumped. They just don't give a shit and it shows in every scene.
Why should they, when the directors haven't asked them to do or
say anything interesting or original? Wilson trots out his now-busted-dick
schtick of laidback surfer. Dillon mostly lets his eyebrows do
the acting. When they don't, he pouts. And Hudson doesn't do a
fucking thing except sort of try to act sweet the way a Village
Inn waitress hoping for a tip does. Maybe that's where she'll
end up. I hope so, because there are lots of Village Inns and
I can avoid the one she's at.
You, Me and Dupree. Think of the Indians, think of your
soul; just don't let shit like this wear you down. One Finger.
Want to tell Filthy Something?