Grossout comedy is all the rage in Hollywood. Bad taste has become good taste, because it pays, and Lex at the multiplex says that Filth is the new cool.
This leaves the way open for Johnny Knoxville and the Jackass crew to behave like naughty schoolboys who believe that moral boundaries are there to be urinated on.
Johnny dresses up as a randy old man and goes on a road trip with Billy, his eight-year-old grandson.
First off, his wife dies, much to his relief, because now he can hit on girls and behave inappropriately with every female he meets.
Feminists should take out a fatwa against him immediately and the police might have something to say about that body in the boot of his car.
En route from a drug addicted mother to a layabout father, Billy is an accomplice to many of Grandpa’s outrages, such as shoplifting and dressing up as a sexy pre-teen at a junior beauty pageant. Fart jokes are taken to extremes, as are everything to do with male genitalia. The language, naturally, goes off the radar.
The film would be excruciating if scripted for actors, but so much is hidden camera stuff in the style of Sasha Baron Cohen that it becomes embarrassing as well.
Knoxville, in Grandpa guise, taunts obese women – the men are fatties, too – every whichwhere, in order to entice panto shock horror.
It doesn’t happen. People stare open mouthed and are reluctant to get involved, or express disgust.
Only at the hen night in some seedy club where black male strippers perform penile erectus routines do the ladies laugh at Grandpa’s antics.
Perhaps its those margaritas. It cannot be Johnny.