Gentleman, how many times has this happened to you? After four long years in that prom-night-mishap-induced coma, you’re finally roused by your best pal via baseball bat to the face, only to discover that the devotedly vestal sweetheart with whom you used to tag-team elementary school abstinence seminars has bailed on you to become a Playboy playmate.
 Charlottesville’s own Trevor Moore, left, and Zach Cregger face the awful truth that it’s best to miss Miss March. |
If your answer is, “Zero: That has happened to me zero times, and it’s not even funny, really, just sort of awkwardly drawn out and dumb and ultimately completely boring,” well, O.K. I think we understand each other.
If, however, your answer is something along the lines of, “Oh yeah, that totally happened to me, a bunch of times” or, especially, “Man, I wish that would happen to me,” well, now you have yourself a reason to run right out and see Miss March. Another reason to run right out and see Miss March is that it might not be in theaters very much longer, on account of how absolutely terrible it is. Beyond that, obviously, there are no other reasons.
But you can still read about it. Now that you’re here, and you know the basic premise of the thing, don’t you at least want to find out what happens?
God, neither did I. But let’s humor writer-director-stars and Whitest Kids U’ Know sketchers Zach Cregger and Trevor Moore, a little, what with the latter having cut his comedy teeth on Charlottesville Public Access in the mid-’90s and all. O.K, now imagine a joke about needing to go to the comedy dentist. See how that was both snide and lame, but also lazily abortive, because I obviously knew in my heart that it wasn’t even worth it? Well, there you have the Miss March m.o. A thorough humoring is very much what these dudes need.
Cregger’s the clean-cut comatose prude, and Moore’s his bat-wielding buddy, a weirdo-horndog lout channeling Ace Ventura-era Jim Carrey, but not very well. What happens is that they make a road-trip pilgrimage to the Playboy mansion.
With the stakes and the misogyny ante raised by a bit with Moore brutishly offending his epileptic girlfriend (Molly Stanton), Cregger finds himself hastily abducted from his hospital bed; with nothing but fuzzy memories, shrunken muscles and incontinent bowels to go on, he’s off to win back his playmate (Raquel Alessi).
On the road, the boys do a lot of squealing. They get into scrapes.
They have some help from hot Slavic lesbians. And from another high-school classmate, now a raunch-mad hip-hop star calling himself Horsedick.MPEG. This fellow is played by Craig Robinson, with his usual knack for being the funniest thing in an otherwise crappy movie (see also Zack and Miri Make a Porno; or just see that instead).
For a crass sex comedy, Miss March seems strangely self-neutering—quite literally, given the last-act revelation that one character was born without genitalia. Gentlemen, ask yourselves: Better or worse than a four-year coma?