Bringing Down the House, in the simplest of terms, is about a movie-version of the Uptight White Guy who learns a few things about life from the standard-issue Wise-Cracking Black Woman. Ugh. Aren’t we done with this kind of thing yet?

Steve Martin stars as Peter, a workaholic tax attorney who strikes up an internet chat-room friendship with someone he knows only as LawyerGirl. But when he answers the doorbell for their first date he finds not the sleek, blonde attorney he expected but Charlene (Queen Latifah), just out of prison and looking for legal help. After a few attempts at getting rid of her, he agrees to take her case when she threatens to make a scene that could jeopardize his relationship with a conservative new client (Joan Plowright).

There were a few things I liked about Bringing Down the House, chief among them the casting. It’s hard to go wrong with Steve Martin, a long-standing favorite of mine, and Queen Latifah, fresh off her Oscar-nominated role in Chicago, is talented and charismatic. Eugene Levy, with his deadpan delivery of street patter, steals a few scenes as Peter’s best friend who is instantly smitten with Charlene.
If only the strong cast had better material to work with. The script by first time screenwriter Jason Filardi relies on offensive stereotypes and tired gags for its humor, and doesn’t even attempt to offer up characters or situations that the audience can believe in or care about. In the movie’s world, all black people are from The Hood and not only are the majority of white people vile bigots, they don’t even try to hide it. A more realistic – and interesting – movie villain would have been sly and underhanded in her racism, but Peter’s sister-in-law thinks it’s okay to tell a black woman she has no business in a country club unless she’s pushing a broom.

This makes about as much sense as Charlene, who has every reason to avoid police attention, throwing a loud house party in Peter’s uptight suburban neighborhood; as much sense as the English-accented Plowright telling stories about growing up in the South; as much sense as the maid’s outfit – conveniently in Charlene’s size – that Peter just happens to own when the plot calls for her to play servant to the racist (of course) client. Do filmmakers even care about logic anymore?

I have fond memories of Steve Martin comedies like Roxanne and L.A. Story, movies that were infinitely funnier than this formulaic mess and still managed to portray characters who bore more than a passing resemblance to actual humans. I can’t help but think that in a movie like that, he and the Queen could be comic royalty.

Gorilla Pants rating: 1 out of 4 bananas