As a director, Chris Rock makes a fine stand-up comic. Like a good Gilbert Gottfried ectype, eyes wide open and minus the tics, Rock squawks dialog with the same intensity he brings to a Madagascar dubbing session, only his latest creation is being pitched as gutsy and ambitious. To date, Gilbert has not felt the need to construct a confessional in which to scatter semi-improvised condescension which is exactly what Rock piles on in this inept alliance of Stardust Memories and Lost Weekend. What little story there is to tell gets regularly interrupted with time-padding flashback skits, off-topic rants, and more “n” words than a KKK smoker. Things might have been different had I been laughing, but apart from a gag involving Rorschach-stained hotel sheets and a Chaplinesque turn by DMX, the only knee-slapping moment comes in the form of Rock’s dead-serious utterance of three pathos-laden words: “He’s my father.” (2014) — Scott Marks
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