Last weekend over on the Twitters, Daniel Carlson — after witnessing the 30-second Nagasaki called the Bucky Larson: Born to Be a Star TV commercial — made a wise suggestion: That Pajiba not review the Nick Swardson film. To acknowledge it is to give it power, and anyone with an IQ over 79 knows from a simple 30-second preview that the movie will be tantamount to slow-miserable death by flesh-eating bacteria. To review it would be pointless, like standing in front of a red light with a stop sign. Joanna quickly seconded that recommendation, and Agent Bedhead thirded it. And because the review had languished on our review schedule unassigned — because I didn’t have the heart to force anyone else to see it — I went along. What a great idea! Who would miss the Bucky Larson review? The weekend will come and go, and maybe two commenters will interrupt the Contagion review thread to sarcastically demand the review, the box-office report will come out (where Bucky will fail to break the top ten) and it will all be forgotten. Brilliant. I could spend the day catching up on old episodes of “Hoarders” and removing detritus from the lint trap in my dryer with a pipe cleaner.
It was settled. I wouldn’t review Bucky Larson. No one would.
But then, the movie listings arrived. I looked on Fandango. On Flixter. On Movietickets.com, and those movie times taunted me. They screamed, “Dude! How could you not review this film? It’s a bad movie. That’s what you do. You swing at the low-hanging fruit. It’s why Mel Gibson’s God put you on this Earth: To restate the obvious. With profanity.”
Bucky Larson, with his hideous buck teeth, called out, beckoned me, flashing, “What if it’s the worst movie of the year? What if it’s the worst movie of all time? Do you really want to miss the worst movie of all time?” Bucky Larson could be another Ecks vs. Sever or Gigli, and you’d never know the satisfaction of reviewing the pit at the end of the bottomless.
I wrestled with myself. I even attempted to throw myself in front of a slow-moving bus. But here I am, having just spent $10 on a movie I knew would suck and then allowing it, for an hour and a half, to rob me of my dignity, of my soul, of an opportunity to clean my lint trap. Somewhere around the 20 minute mark of Bucky Larson, the neurons stopped firing in my brain. By the forty-fifth minute, I’d lost feeling in my legs. At the hour mark, I was startled awake by a laugh from the back corner of the theater; I didn’t even realize there was someone else in the screening. I wanted to stand up, walk back, and punch that man in the throat for encouraging Nick Swardson, even psychically. But I didn’t want to be seen, and besides, when I turned around, I noticed that he was laughing at something on his phone. I should’ve known. It couldn’t have been Bucky Larson because Bucky Larson is laugh repellent. If the essence of Bucky Larson could be bottled, the perfume would be called, “You’re a Fucking Idiot for Buying This.”
Bucky Larson: Born to be a Star is The Jerk crossed with Son in Law crossed with scrambled porn channels crossed with an ice pick to the eye. It follows a mentally retarded doofus from the Midwest who discovers that his parents were once porn stars. He immediately recognizes that to become a porn star is his “destiny” (with echoes to The Jerk’s “special purpose”) and sets out to Hollywood to fulfill his dreams.
Such a profession proves to be difficult for Bucky, however. He had never masturbated, never had sex, and didn’t even know the mechanics of intercourse. The bigger impediment, however, turned out to be his tiny, tiny penis. Nevertheless, with the assistance of a washed-up director, Miles Deep (Don Johnson), and because there’s a niche for everything in porn, Bucky and Miles soon discover a gigantic market: Other men with small dicks who want to feel better about themselves.
There is also a love interest (Christina Ricci), whose lifelong dream is to become a waitress. Stephen Dorff, meanwhile, plays the antagonist, Dick Shadow, and Kevin Nealon plays Bucky’s aggressive roommate, a man who doesn’t like to share his milk.
The film comes from tiny-brained director Tom Brady, who also brought us Hot Chick, and just to give you an idea how low Bucky Larson is on the Happy Madison food chain, not only does Adam Sandler not make a cameo, but neither does Rob Schneider. I mean, how bad does a Happy Madison film have to be for Rob Schneider to turn down a cameo? Swardson co-wrote the film with Sandler and Alan Covert, the latter of whom also co-wrote Grandma’s Boy, a film I despised and yet, it is the fucking Matrix compared to Bucky Larson, which may not be the worst film of all time, but certainly qualifies as the worst of 2011. It will not be beaten.
And to demonstrate just how bad Bucky Larson is, here are 20 things that I saw while watching Bucky Larson that I will never be able to unsee.