If you look at the skulls of American Indians from the last few hundred years, you'll notice that many times the molars are often worn flat with the gum line. That is because the maize they ate contained small pebbles and sand that wore off of the mortar and pestle. Over time, and undetected, those bits of stone wore the Indians' molars down to smooth stubs. The Indians probably never noticed their teeth getting flatter because each additional meal created negligible changes. But one day, one of them probably stuck a finger in his mouth when a tooth cracked and thought, "What the fuck?"

Watching movies like You, Me and Dupree has the same effect on the human soul. They grind you down in a million little, grating ways until your existence is flat and small. You don't notice the wear when you're sitting in the theater, but one night you're lying on your couch and you find yourself laughing at a rerun of Boy Meets World and you think, "What the fuck? When did my sense of taste get so ground down that I'll sit here and take this shit like a series of boots to the head?"

You, Me and Dupree is so brainless, pointless and tired it'll grate a layer off your soul and your will to live. Fuck, the people who made it must have already ground theirs into nothingness. There ain't a damn thing that stands out that I can point to and say "This is why it sucks," it just the sense of malaise and sorrow I got from seeing so much fucking money and time spent on something so pointless and wimpy.

Believe me, it's as fucking wimpy as a chess president dumped by his tuba-playing girlfriend. In fact, I can't think of a God damn reason to recommend You, Me and Dupree, unless you have a thing for pussy-whipped men and personality-free whining. Because that's all you're getting. Dull Matt Dillon plays a boring professional newly married to dull Kate Hudson, a dud of a schoolteacher with a rich father, but who can make every man wither under her glare. This is not a special quality she has, it is apparently the way all men react to women. In Dupres's world, marriage means you never get to have fun, and get your nuts snipped off, and you do whatever the woman says. If you don't, you have hell to pay. Maybe that's the way it is for some of you, but that's because you're fucking sacless wimps.

Along comes wacky Owen Wilson, the titular Dupree, to spice things up. He's unemployed and needs a place to live, and Dillon agrees to let him stay with the newlyweds, who apparently need to have lots of sex because... why? Surely she lived in his wimpy-ass house before they locked up. His wackiness causes all sorts of problems. He burns down the house, gets into a hidden porn stash (no, we don't get to see a single moment of these surely-better flicks), and draws out Dillon's animal male side. See, because in shitty, soul-crushing movies that seek to do nothing new, men love sports and women love shopping. Or kittens, or orphans. But never anal beads.

As though by formula, though, Wilson becomes beloved for his sincerity, and he's the glue that keeps Dillon and Hudson's fledgling marriage together. Oh, thank God. It was touch and go there for a few seconds during the opening credits.

Dillon, Hudson and Wilson go through the entire movie with their shoulders slumped. They just don't give a shit and it shows in every scene. Why should they, when the directors haven't asked them to do or say anything interesting or original? Wilson trots out his now-busted-dick schtick of laidback surfer. Dillon mostly lets his eyebrows do the acting. When they don't, he pouts. And Hudson doesn't do a fucking thing except sort of try to act sweet the way a Village Inn waitress hoping for a tip does. Maybe that's where she'll end up. I hope so, because there are lots of Village Inns and I can avoid the one she's at.

Fuck You, Me and Dupree. Think of the Indians, think of your soul; just don't let shit like this wear you down. One Finger.

Help Filthy || Want to tell Filthy Something?