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No mo' mojo, Mike, please

by Joey Cody

Mike Myers has lost his mojo. I thought the guy was smart enough to quit while he was ahead, but the latest Austin Powers installment is little more than a lazy free-for-all. And it's not enough for him to stamp the AP brand on the '60s. In Goldmember, Myers gobbles up the retro appeal of the '70s, too.

Like Fat Bastard's bathroom habits (which, of course, are described in detail), this flick's story line is all over the place. To start things off, Austin travels back to 1975, to rendezvous with a bootylicious detective and rescue his dad. Then, in the midst of goofy submarines, prison breaks, time travel and building a tractor beam, we also get a sappy love-fest. You can almost hear Oprah's introduction: "Today on Goldmember: the pain and tenderness of father/son relationships." Oh, joy—psychotherapy instead of laughs. Dr. Evil, Mini-Me, and Scott Evil turn up the heat on their vicious father-son-clone drama. And Austin and his absentee dad, spy extraordinaire Nigel Powers (Michael Caine), need to work though some serious issues of their own. The resultant power struggles are more irritatingly pat and manipulative than funny.

Even Myers himself seems tired of the Powers shtick. His half-hearted Austinisms are few and weary—gone is the twinkle in the eye, the lusty purr, the saucy hip thrusts...there's nary a "fancy a shag?" in the movie. In his cameo, even Tom Cruise is more Austin than Austin, and Goldmember is so crammed with Myers' other alter egos that there's not much room left for the hero.

The gang's all here: Dr. Evil, Mini-Me, Fat Bastard, lots of henchmen, some Japanese guy, and introducing the Eurotrashy Dutchman, Goldmember—a lame addition to a cast already clogged with villains.

Mike Myers must be following the Eddie Murphy career model these days, because he insists on playing all the characters in his movies himself (except the requisite arm candy). And once you set that precedent, well...Mr. Myers as the Nutty Professor, anyone?

It's precisely this necessity of being a one-man band that gives the impression that Myers is more of an insecure control freak than a multi-talented comedian. He's unable to delegate, and it seems more than a little paranoid and ungenerous for Myers to keep all the fun parts for himself. Surely he could have given one of his many comedian friends the opportunity to play one of the several villains (of which there are too many anyhow). Even the galactically annoying Carrot Top could have invented a more amusing enemy than Gold- member.

With recycled jokes from the first movie, the AP franchise has become the Saturday Night Live skit that just wouldn't end, even when it's clearly in the toilet.

Which is exactly where Goldmember spends most of its time—on potty and dick jokes. If you're looking forward to an assembly line of forced sight gags and stupid gross-outs, well, wade on in—you'll certainly get your fill. Don't get me wrong—I'm no prig, and I enjoy the occasional belch and booger bit as much as the next gal, but I rolled out of the theater feeling as bloated on idiocy as Fat Bastard after a day at a six-meat buffet. What was once gleeful naughtiness and unabashed swinger style has slid into shameless pandering to prepubescent humor.

Farrelly Brothers jokes aside, the truly sickening part of the spectacle is Myers' ass-kissing and self-congratulation. That's right, MM is big-time, and you better recognize it! The melange of cameos by Hollywood muckety-mucks only serves to show off his star connections and obsequiousness: "Hey, see how many famous people I convinced to be in my movie? It must be a hit!" This nauseating dog-and-pony show was completely wasted on me— I would have traded Britney Spears for more Mindy Sterling (Frau Farbissina) any day.

As detective Foxxy Cleopatra, the beautiful Beyoncé Knowles soldiers on valiantly, but Myers doesn't give her much to do other than showcase her belly and say "You're under arrest, Sugar" over and over again in a sultry echo of Pam Grier. (Then again, anything's an improvement over watching Heather Graham try to act her way out of a paper bag.) Even Foxxy's afrotastic style doesn't give Austin enough mojo to make up for his few flaccid appearances.

The most pathetic fate of all, through, is that of poor little Scott Evil—formerly he of the Gen-X ridicule and angst. Here he loses all his edge and appeal, getting in only a couple jabs before quickly disintegrating into a pitiful wannabe.

As sad as it makes me to say it, it's high time for Austin Powers and crew to shimmy off into the sunset in the Shaguar. Even sharks with frickin' laser beams attached to their heads can't save this one.

  August 1, 2002 * Vol. 12, No. 31
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