Thug Life

MIKE TYSON: UNDISPUTED TRUTH (C-minus) - I know what Spike Lee is going for here, but this cutesy rehabilitation of the former champ as stand-up comic plays like a long, awkward outtake from "Raging Bull" -- those sad scenes of the overweight, over-the-hill Jake LaMotta sputtering nonsense rhymes. Imagine if Scorsese made a 90-minute film of just those nightclub scenes.

Tyson plays to a sympathetic New York crowd in his Broadway one-man show (filmed for HBO), telling foul-mouthed tales from throughout his tough, colorful life. Overweight, out of shape, and frequently pawing at his flop-sweat, Iron Mike can barely make it through each anecdote without wheezing let alone a three-minute round these days. His speech impediment is an actual impediment to such a vaudeville spectacle; several times (and several times too many) he makes reference to the show's speech coach.

The crime of this production is that Tyson waters down his material for middle America. Despite the flurry of expletives and thuggish histrionics, this revisionist history is self-serving and made palatable for the masses. Rape? Cocaine binges? A little ear-nibbling? Oh, you rascal!


The sentiments expressed are beyond trite. His mother, sister and daughter are all angels who flew up to heaven, exploited conveniently to mark the end of each act. The facile script was penned by Tyson's wife, Kiki, and it presents a version of the heavyweight as seen through a spouse's rose-colored glasses. The whole experiment is a cruel hoax; you half-expect him to break out of this crazy character and rampage through the theater like Peter Boyle's tuxedoed monster in "Young Frankenstein."

Throughout, Tyson shows a bizarre inclination toward outdated ethnic and lifestyle stereotypes, repeatedly reminding us that mentor Cus D'Amato was Italian and pantomiming jail rape of his adversaries. A centerpiece spiel about his tedious rivalry with boxer Mitch Green, complete with oafish clowning, goes on forever and kills the show.

I'm a fan of Tyson the boxer, and I admire his ability to work through his lifetime of issues. For the real Mike Tyson, check out James Toback's fascinating 2008 study of the man as he was coming out of rehab and wrestling with his significant demons, while expressing a fairly cogent philosophy of life. (Or re-watch his cameo in "The Hangover.") This guy on Broadway in the Atticus Finch suit? He's a hack and a fraud.


THIS IS THE END (B-minus) - The first 20 minutes of this vanity project -- in which the offspring of Apatow portray exaggerated versions of their public personas -- are pretty fun. But the conceit gets old quickly, and these broad characterizations grow tiring, especially when the apocalypse hits and the special effects flood the screen.

Seth Rogan and Jonah Hill are together again (I loved them both in Apatow's underappreciated "Funny People" from 2009) -- clean cut and popular now -- and they're joined by a who's who frat pack of self-deprecating cool comedians, including Craig Robinson, Danny McBride, Jason Segal, Aziz Ansari, Kevin Hart and Christopher Mintz-Plasse, clowning around at a party at James Franco's house. Michael Cera has a blast as a coked-out asshole pussy-hound, who gets bitch-slapped by (I think) Rihanna. A few women are given bit parts in this male fantasy -- Mindy Kahling is granted a line or two, and Emma Watson gets her "Hunger Games" on. Channing Tatum shows up at the end in a turn that would make Magic Mike blush.


The ostensible story involves Jay Baruchel feeling left out of the SoCal crowd and abandoned by old pal Rogen, in a flat bromance in which all winking hetero hipsters hope to go to heaven. But that's just a quick sketch to give these improv olympics a hint of a beginning, middle and end. Otherwise, this is wall-to-wall pop-culture riffing, often at elevated decibels. And don't dismiss this as just a relentless slog of tossed off dick jokes; writers Rogen and Evan Goldberg also give us several castration sight-gags.

After the Second Coming sets siege on L.A. and ruins Franco's party, the boys go into survival mode, hunkered down in the "127 Hours" star's mansion. They are oh-so-clever in their repartee, surviving in their boy bubble by playing video games and cuddling at night. The shtick dribbles steadily downhill.

The only consistent highlights come from McBride, whose putdown skills run rings around all the others combined. Sure, his range is limited, but when he's in the zone, like in HBO's "Eastbound and Down," no one can keep up with him. He's worth the price of admission.

If you make it all the way through the bloated 107 minutes and the psychotic special effects (some rough beast gets circumcised by a laser beam from heaven), you're rewarded with a predictable epilogue featuring the requisite '90s nostalgia act. From, you know, the heady days of adolescence.