Simon says.... PAUL BLART: MALL COP sends a shiver of disgust down his spine!

I'm sorry but I simply cannot bring myself to write much about this film. Aside from it being pretty damn abysmal, and spoiling the comic talent that is King of Queens'Kevin James by saddling him with some dire material, the Mall Cop's surname is the same word as some of the less classy members of society in my locality would use to describe a lady's special region. And I dont mean her vanity table. Now, dont get me wrong, I am a huge fan of euphemisms, especially for genitalia, but I cant get over the incumbent mental image that comes with the word blart in that specific context. A blart, for me, is a particularly messy lady garden- like Predator's face if he grew an especially unkempt beard. And every single time I hear the word, a shiver of disgust crawls along my spine- a million icey fingers spelling horror on every nerve. So, to see it spelled out in man-high letters on billboards and on the side of passing buses is far from a pleasant experience for me, and far from creating an atmosphere conducive to an hour and a half of cinematic enjoyment. That's it, as far as I'm concerned- you could put William H Macy, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Eddie Izzard and Tom Hardy in a film together about the gloriously narrative Thatcher years and I would sing like a Starling of its beauty, but then involve the dreaded B-Word in any minute way and I would immediately lose all critical integrity and call it a piece of shit regardless of its artistic merit. It's just how I feel. Lucky for my integrity that Paul Blart: Paul Cop doesnt disappoint on the disappointment front. Anyway, on to a slightly more professional, critical track (I literally have no more bile to fill my mouth)- as I've said the movie is hardly a challenging or particularly rewarding experience. For a comedy, the laughs are few and far between, and most rely too much on the audience having an extremely short attention span and not remembering that the last gag's hook was exactly the same. The writing is just not good enough- especially considering what I thought to be Kevin James' comedy abilities- and the gags weaker than water... Before I go on, I'm not being precious about James, I realise he has a credit as a writer here as well, and as such is at least partly responsible for the shit he had to work with. But when you consider that just about the only redeeming element in the whole sorry affair is the endearing character that James manages to create out of apparently nothing and despite his own written attempts to sabotage it, it becomes more obvious why I'm so pissed off with the movie. There was always limited potential for success from the outset, considering the initial premise of the film, but I refuse to accept that this is what Kevin James has come to, or that this is what Hollywood expects its audiences to deem funny. If this is an attempt to show that people will still like Kevin James, despite what he inflicts upon his- like a wierd dipstick challenge to measure the enduring power of his charm- then they are playing a dangerous game that they might only just have won. Another few steps down the ladder of shit and this would have been the end of his brief flirtation with Hollywood, and we might well have been welcoming The King of Queens back onto our screens. You know how it works, first there's a Christmas reunion special, then when the stars realise they dont actually have any staying power in their film careers a special (enormously paid) new series is spectacularly unveiled on a coincidentally flagging Network (see also the inevitable paths of both Friends and Sex & The City- though one would hope Frasier would be exempt). Sadly, though, for Kevin James and his remaining fans, his career trajectory is far from positive. The King of Queens was excellent for what it was, Hitch was a valiant first step, but then I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry had too few original gags or character hooks, and now with Paul Blart the big man has sunk to a new low. It may seem callous to mention his size (especially when I'm more Kevin Smith than Ryan Reynolds myself) but Paul Blart seems content enough to perpetually forefront it as the one major joke of the film- here's a guy doing the fitness course for the police force, but guess what, he's a chubby- now he's on a Segway, and he's still portly, how perfectly hilarious, oh and now he's chasing badduns through his mall, while remaining husky. Hardly the most intelligently observed comedy. At the end of the day- for a film obsessed with fat, there simply isnt enough meat on its comedy bones.