There are some films that are hardly worth the trouble of watching: once youíve got the central concept, you can pretty much run the movie in your head. Take Little Man; the concept here is that Marlon Wayans is a tiny jewel thief who masquerades as a baby in order to rescue a priceless diamond from a childless suburban couple. There, thatís all you need. Now you can watch the film in the privacy of your own imagination. Horrible, isnít it?
It would be easy (and satisfying) to really rip some holes in this excremental excuse for a comedy. We could dwell on the kind of mentality that finds a dog urinating on a babyís face the height of wit. We could wonder how the Wayans brothers, perpetrators of the Scary Movie franchise and White Chicks, are still somehow finding work. We could despair at an audience that delights in leering at pneumatic breasts, guffawing at cracked heads and recoiling in horror from any hint of intelligence.
"FOR FART LOVERS AND POO FANS"
But why bother? To attack Little Man is to attack the entire demographic of moviegoers who, for some reason, love this stuff. So let's take the film on its own terms. The special effects are first rate: Marlon Wayans' head on a tiny body is the creepiest thing I've seen all year. For fart lovers, there is farting in a bathtub. And poo fans are in luck too: we've got dirty diapers galore. Afficionados of large breasts will enjoy the close-ups of Brittany Danielís torso, and surely everyone can enjoy the highly amusing moments of testicular trauma. Taken on its own terms, Little Man isnít bad. In the same way that, as diseases go, cholera is pretty darned successful.