I know! Hands trembling with anticipation, I tore the shrinkwrap off this Blu-ray disc fully expecting that Miss March would chronicle the further adventures of one of my favorite characters from Louisa May Alcott's Little Women, and what do I get instead...? A titty comedy.
Oops! Instead of grabbing onto a couple of C-cups and cluing into what his Special Purpose is for, Eugene winds up in a coma for four long years. When he wakes up...? His angel is a centerfold. Before you can say "na na na na na na", Eugene and Tucker are carving a path clean across the country to the Playboy Mansion, and...okay, they haven't really figured out what they're gonna do once they get there, but I'm pretty sure telling Cindi something factors in somewhere along the line. Yeah, so it's another road-trip-to-get-laid-I-guess comedy, complete with an epileptic-fork-stabbed-vengeful girlfriend (Molly Stanton) and a half-battalion of bloodthirsty firefighters, a way-overcompensating rapper MC'ing as Horsedick-dot-mpeg (The Office's Craig Robinson), Eastern bloc lesbians, arson...yeah.
Look, I'm not some stuffy online critic who scowls at anything but subtitled Swedish imports or whatever. I mean, I dug Sex Drive, and I was forcing Eurotrip on pretty much anyone who trotted into my living room for a while there. I might as well have a bright, shiny sticker beaming "Hello, I'm the target demographic; ask me how!" slapped somewhere chest-ish. It's just that Miss March is really bad. Really, really bad. Really, really, really, really, really bad. Like, if I copied and pasted "really" seventeen or eighteen more times, I'd still probably be underselling just how God-awful Miss March really is. Really. There's an art to stupid comedy, and Miss March botches it. One of the first gags in the flick is a ten year old (or whatever) saying, "look at the ass on that thing. Hello!" You're supposed to laugh 'cause a little kid said "turd cutter". Okay. Oh, Tucker keeps saying cock and balls on the phone, and there's a running gag where Eugene squirts out a couple barrel drums of diarrhea whenever he's stressed. It's like those hack comics in the '80s who'd say "spork", and that was supposed to pass for a punchline...no setup, no payoff, just referencing "spork" was supposed to make you snicker. I never really got into what little I'd caught of The Whitest Kids U Know's sketch comedy on cable, but I kinda got the impression that they're more adventurous than "tee-hee! The fat guy said 'poop'!" or a lazy gross-out gag like ringing out a shit-sopping rag.
For a sex comedy, there's hardly any...what's the word I'm fumbling around for here...oh! Sex. 'Snot much nudity either, even in this unrated version. Even though Raquel Alessi is supposed to star as a Playmate, she shows more skin on the cover art than she does in the actual movie. A lot of the women who do lose their tops aren't all that appealing: most of 'em are so cartoonishly overinflated that they look like the pumped-up dragons in "Dig Dug" and, by and large, they drove right past Pretty seven or eight exits back.
Miss March is starring, co-written by, and directed by a couple of kids off a cable sketch comedy show, and...yeah, that's pretty much what it feels like: a long, dumb, room temperature sketch. It chucks an armful of routine gross-out gags at a paint-by-numbers plot, but nothing ever really connects. I mean, Miss March is a sex comedy with hardly any sex and pretty much no comedy, and it's in the running as the single worst flick I've suffered through so far this year (and I watched Strange Wilderness too!). Nah, grab a copy of the way-better-pinky-swear Sex Drive instead.
Oh, and thanks to
Miss March is saddled with a low-rent, shot-on-video look, but for what it is, this Blu-ray disc looks pretty solid. The digital photography sports a silky smooth texture, and it's lugging around a vivid, candy-colored palette. Its more brightly-lit shots are ridiculously sharp with a nice three-dimensional pop, but contrast flattens out and the image can look quite a bit softer when the lights are dialed down. A few scattered wider shots strike me as kinda soft and murky as well. Even with a seasoned D.P. behind the camera, Miss March really just looks like something hammered out for basic cable, and there's nothing all that cinematic about it.
A few extra scanlines lightly letterbox Miss March to its theatrical aspect ratio of 1.85:1, and the video on this dual-layer Blu-ray disc has been encoded with AVC.
Miss March is packing a 24-bit DTS-HD Master Audio soundtrack, but...yeah, swooping dynamics, crystalline highs, a startlingly immersive sound design...? Not so much. The mix is all kinda muddled together, the surround channels are kept chittering throughout but still come across as pretty much an afterthought, and dialogue sounds sort of flat throughout. The thundering hip-hop kinda/sorta rattles the room, but still, it's not exactly something you'd grab off the shelf to show off your home theater rig. Miss March sounds less like a movie and more like...well, a low-budget show on cable like The Whitest Kids U Know, so don't brace yourself for any ecstatic toe-curling or anything.
This Blu-ray disc also serves up a Dolby Digital 5.1 dub in French along with subtitles in English (SDH), Spanish, and Portuguese.
The Final Word
Grab the next-to-last sketch on any random episode of Saturday Night Live, drag it out for a pretty much laughless hour and a half, sprinkle in some poop jokes and a few bolted-on Frankentitties, and you're stuck staring at Miss March. Skip It.
Why Not? A Few More Screengrabs