F

I don’t know whether the unfortunate title suited the Donald Westlake novel on which the picture is based, but it certainly fits the miserable Martin Lawrence vehicle that’s been fashioned from it. “What’s The Worst That Could Happen?” is apparently intended to be a good-naturedly nasty revenge comedy, but it’s so clumsily constructed and crudely performed that it’s numbingly unfunny. Sloppily written (with little regard for even the most rudimentary clarity of plot), haphazardly directed (some scenes seem like absolute chaos) and acted without finesse across the board, the picture is, like its star, aggressive but dull. Things get so bad that when it treats us to an extended sequence based on the supposed hilarity of canine flatulence, one can only ruefully acknowledge that the scene fits in perfectly with the dross that surrounds it.

Perhaps something clever and off-kilter could have been made of the central story idea about a professional thief, caught by a scheming media mogul while trying to rob the fellow’s house, who’s so infuriated by the billionaire’s seizure of his ring that he engages in a series of elaborate ploys to retrieve his property and get back at the guy. One can imagine an amusing tit-for-tat scenario emerging from the premise, but whatever Westlake’s original did with it, Matthew Chapman’s screenplay doesn’t develop the notion at all. Perhaps because Lawrence’s loyal viewers wouldn’t have enjoyed seeing their hero get bested even once, let alone in alternation with his foe, the script is just a tiresome sequence of episodes in which Lawrence’s Kevin Caffery repeatedly humiliates Max Fairbanks (Danny DeVito), while the latter snarls and curses. Laurel and Hardy proved over and over again that for this sort of farce to work, the punishment has to go both ways. But it seems that the makers decided that with Lawrence starring, it was the obligatory that Kevin had to be some sort of superdude whose street smarts and purported charm will bring him victory every time.

As if that weren’t bad enough, Lawrence plays the character (previously portrayed on screen, as a critic more knowledgeable than I informed me, by both Robert Redford and George C. Scott, the former in “The Hot Rock” and the latter in “Bank Shot”) with the same smirking swagger he unvaryingly brings to every part. He mugs so ferociously that he almost makes one long for the relative subtlety he displayed, wearing a wig and a fat suit, in “Big Momma’s House.” And if director Sam Weisman (who struck it big with “George of the Jungle,” only to bomb with “The Out-of-Towners”) tried to impose any discipline on his manic star, it certainly isn’t apparent. In Lawrence’s hands, Caffery is simply insufferable, without a smidgen of wit or likeableness. Nor is DeVito’s Fairbanks much better. The pint-sized actor is hampered by the fact that Chapman hasn’t provided him with any humorous lines (a few obscenity-laced harangues are about all he’s given), but that’s a circumstance that the atrociously-written script inflicts on everyone else in the cast, too, so Danny isn’t alone. The upshot is that he rants and raves with the same intensity he used to bring to his role as Louie De Palma on “Taxi,” but to much less comic effect. And he’s done the scheming scoundrel bit a lot better on the big screen before–just think of “Ruthless People” or “Throw Momma From the Train.”

The supporting players don’t fare any better. John Leguizamo follows up his grisly performance as Toulouse-Lautrec in “Moulin Rouge” with a frantically unfunny turn as Kevin’s partner in crime–his attempts at accents are especially sad–and Glenne Headly is colorless as his girlfriend. Carmen Ejogo is strangely stilted as Max’s secretary, while Nora Dunn does her customary harpy bit as his wife and Larry Miller his usual dumbbell stuff as his security chief. Only Richard Schiff, who underplays as Max’s long-suffering lawyer, and Bernie Mac, who overplays pleasantly as Kevin’s uncle and fence, come through unscathed.

And then there’s William Fichtner, as the ostentatiously swishy Boston detective assigned to investigate Caffrey’s repeated thefts of Fairbanks’ stuff. Certain members of the audience may be amused by the crude stereotype and Fichtner’s preening flamboyance, but others will be rightly appalled. (There’s another gag late in the picture, in which Miller thinks DeVito is coming on to him, that’s almost as awful.) But it’s not merely gays who will be offended by the crassness “What’s the Worst That Could Happen?” offhandedly purveys as humor: there’s another scene in which Lawrence and Leguizamo pose as Arabs that’s so tasteless that it would merit pickets around the theatre. While gays and Arab-Americans will be understandably upset by such bits, though, they won’t be alone in their outrage. After all, what Weisman’s movie insults most is our collective intelligence.