The latest example of this 'couldn't care less' approach is this egregiously dumb effort. Directed by Brian Levant, the man responsible for Ice Cube's Are We There Yet?, the stupid Snow Dogs, and both Flintstones films, it is hackneyed, manipulative, and meaningless, nothing more than a mindless waste of time.
Chan plays Bob Ho, a bespectacled pen salesman by day, international man of mystery by request. On loan to the CIA from China, he works with fellow agents Glaze (George Lopez) and Colt (Billy Ray Cyrus). Their current mission finds them tracking a Russian spy named Poldark (Magnus Scheving) who, along with slinky sidekick Creel (Katherin Boecher) is after a formula that turns oil into dust.
During his down time, Ho is also trying to woo single mom Gillian (Amber Valletta). Of course, in order to get the girl, he must win over her trio of kid clichés -- hyperactive princess Nora (Alina Foley), wisecracking über-geek Ian (Will Shadley), and disgruntled tween Farren (Madeline Carroll) -- all of whom hate his genial, good-natured guts. When Poldark learns that a stolen formula has fallen into the hands of these sitcom-lite siblings, Ho's two divergent worlds comically (?) crash into each other. The results induce boredom, not belly laughs.
As forced family films go, The Spy Next Door is painful. It represents everything that's wrong with the dumbed down dynamic employed to make what studios believe is good, clean, wholesome entertainment. The plot is nothing more than a MacGuffin, a chance to bring Chan together with the brats, to make them integral to some manner of international incident, and then turn the whole exercise into a combination anemic action film and creaky, cloying comedy. You know the situation is almost unsalvageable when a marginal talent like Papa Hannah Montana is actually wasted in his role as a reliable redneck agent.
It's all the director's fault. Levant tries to turn the moments featuring Chan's acrobatic martial artistry into something special, but the low rent realization constantly shows through. We can see where digitally erased wires, doubles, and other F/X help have been used to aid the aging superstar with some of his stunts. In other instances, the erratic direction and equally unsettled editing destroy the balletic rhythm of Chan's signature style. Levant's lack of comic timing and reliance on slapstick shortcuts is also evident. While his agile and skillful star has often been likened to the previous masters of silent physical humor, a movie like The Spy Next Door puts such a sentiment in question.
That's because everything here, from the plotpoints to the pratfalls, are designed with the still developing, single digit IQ in mind. It's all very one dimensional and generic. Chan does his broken English best to maintain his dignity, and we can begrudgingly credit Levant for avoiding the bodily function humor that seems to soil most PG laugh fests. But that's faint praise indeed. Everything else is awful. Jackie Chan may still have some commercial credibility in this country, especially when you consider his lingering chop sockey champion legacy. But if he keeps making movies like The Spy Next Door, he can kiss that, and his reputation, goodbye.
