Cinema: Split Decision

The National Alliance for the Mentally Ill accused the makers of Me, Myself & Irene of "insensitivity" to schizophrenics for its portrayal of a cop (Jim Carrey) with dueling dual personalities. But the makers are Peter and Bobby Farrelly, auteurs of Dumb & Dumber, Kingpin and There's Something About Mary. If they had any sensitivity, they wouldn't be at the top of Hollywood's gross-comedy heap. They'd be back in Rhode Island asking if you want fries with that. So NAMI will have to get in line behind albinos, African-American dwarfs, dead cows, live chickens and anyone possessing that vestigial appendage known as taste.

If you are none of the above, you are hereby absolved of all guilt when you laugh your ass off in the first half of the film--when the Farrellys exploit their gift for tossing sweet guys into wildly frustrating situations. Carrey plays Charlie, whose wife has left him with three fat black babies (we'll explain another time); he smiles and copes. But by repressing his rage, Charlie has let a demon grow inside him; finally it bursts out in an alter libido named Hank. That makes him bad company for Irene (Renee Zellweger), whom he must escort to upstate New York. You see, he's fallen in love. Both of him.

For his first real comedy in three years, Carrey is all manic ingenuity. His eyebrows tango; he sports dry mouth and a milk mustache; he executes a quintuple spit take. It's not that he'll do anything to get a laugh. It's that he has the timing and gall to earn it--as in his metamorphosis from Charlie to Hank in one shot and with no special effects. You don't need ILM when you have JIM.

But comedy needs a climax. Long before that, MM&I goes slack and desperate. And a chicken in a man's butt isn't all that hilarious. Maybe filmgoers need a lobbying group too: a Society for the Propagation of Promising Comedies That Actually Deliver on Their Promises. Care to join?

--By Richard Corliss