Death To Smoochy
dir. Danny DeVito
Warner Bros.

Sometimes you stay faithful to a movie as if it were a troubled lover you want to see make a positive change; no matter how incredibly self-destructive, wanton and aimless it is, you believe in redemption. As time passes, the chances of your patience being rewarded dwindle. But you pray for an upswing. All your friends warned you to stay away. But you wouldn't listen.

For Edward Norton, Robin Williams or Danny DeVito fans, Death to Smoochy is the girl who plays petty games, the boy who offers empty promises. You blindly infatuated souls who sunk your money and time into this affair should have seen that it was doomed. And to make matters worse: Your pals told you so.

Smoochy, a black comedy about one children's television host ejected for a payola scandal and his clean-cut replacement's travails in filling the same time slot, was roundly badmouthed before its opening date. The idea of a black comedy makes a lot moviegoers skeptical; it's difficult enough to be funny, and adding the morose to the mix can make delivering the ha-has nearly impossible. Moreover, the idea of the excitable Williams in any movie turns some folks rabid.

So Smoochy didn't garner good buzz from the commoners and critically it was deemed a wash — two thumbs down from Ebert and the Replacement. Hope, however, springs eternal, and a few delusional, diehard fans saw the movie. They clung to the belief that Norton's brilliance could transcend the flaws of any film vehicle. They bet on Williams' manic energy to send hilarious shockwaves into any half-baked plot. They banked on DeVito's magic touch. They kept the faith in the face of ridicule. But they were not rewarded.

Smoochy did them wrong. From the opening musical number, which showcases Williams' character stiffly fawning over small children, it's clear that the movie's attempts at humor will tilt too close toward the pathetic. Consider some of the situations Smoochy tries to peddle for laughs: a suicide attempt in Times Square; the cringe-inducing children's song, "My Stepdad's Not Mean, He's Just Adjusting;" and an ice capade featuring an interpretive dance of a mob hit. Granted, in the right hands these setups could be funny. In Smoochy's mitts, however, the scenes elicit more sympathy than humor. You pity the wretched characters and their sorry little lives.

Yet, you've got to look out for yourself. Bad movies will take advantage of you, if you let them. So be strong and be selective. If you haven't yet done so, take advice from a jilted suitor: Avoid hooking up with Smoochy. If you've already been burned, cut your loses and move on. There are other fish in the multiplex.

— Rasheed Newson (rasheednewson@hotmail.com)