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And Shaggy (Matthew Lillard, annoying, but a human cartoon in himself, so the closest thing to an effective performer here) runs around with a computer-generated Scooby whose charm basically begins and ends with tactically lighting his own farts.
There's very little incentive to remain conscious during any of this, such is its lobotomised rehashing of already groan-worthy gags from the original (yes, knowing use of the word "creepy" every few minutes) and further ineffectual postmodern japes along the lines of Lillard yelping: "Like, they're totally having a montage in there without us! The Cat in the Hat PG cert, 82 min Nor are those mentally stable readers who elect to skip The Cat in the Hat, which is neither better nor a great deal worse, but weirder. Critically savaged in America, this radioactive version of the Dr Seuss creation attempts to do with Mike Myers what The Grinch did with Jim Carrey: it squelches his face into painful-looking prosthetics, surrounds him with children you'd quite like to be humanely destroyed, and has him frenetically ad lib his way around the most garish sets ever constructed until you'd settle for them humanely destroying you.
The true sadness of the show was that most of those featured believed that they were above their mirror-image, fame-hungry selves sitting across the table, who were only dating them to get on telly. It was a narcissist’s circus, a show where Stephen Bear was king, a man who so completely imbues toxic masculinity that it emits from his pores like a new Davidoff fragrance, a Neil La Bute nightmare transported to East London.
This was a callous, cold environment made for the likes of Stephanie Pratt, the reality telly veteran, whose battle weary, dead eyes have survived not only .
Reality bites; with any luck it won’t scar Jedward.
It was called Scooby-Doo 1, and it was bad enough the first time.
Freddy (Freddie Prinze, Jr, whose peroxide hair-do means the outside of his head now matches the inside) jousts on a motorbike.Mc Namara is no such monster, but only with unusually tricksy editing can Morris contrive to get him on the back foot at all.And far from providing an ironic underscore, the sinister throb of Philip Glass's music is so familiar by now as to be oddly soothing. Mc Namara's sleight of hand with the half-rationalisation, half-admission may not allow Morris to score many direct hits, but we can still read between the lines, and a genuinely nuanced picture of the man emerges, resigned and emotional, welling up at memories of JFK's death.Daphne (Gellar) kickboxes with phantoms as only Gellar can or would want to.Velma (Linda Cardellini) undergoes a humiliating make-over that I suspect is meant to be a witty spoof of She's All That (there's no such thing).