Review: ‘Smoochy’ destined for classic status

Geoff Carter

Friday, March 29, 2002 | 9:28 a.m.

The best black comedies live in sealed universes -- worlds that have no link to ours.

"Brazil" was a nightmare from which lobotomy was the only escape. The military men of "Dr. Strangelove" had no idea what was happening in their own heads, much less what was going on outside their doors. And if the police had found their way into "Pulp Fiction," the moral code woven by its corrupt and murderous characters would have been pointless; everyone involved would have simply gone to jail.

Danny DeVito understands this better than perhaps any other American director. The conflicts of "The War of the Roses" and "Throw Momma From the Train" were fought in too-close quarters, and after a while the only sensible response to the claustrophobia is a hearty, maniacal laugh, or two, or 10. You laugh because the situation is funny, bordering on painfully uncomfortable.

In directing "Death to Smoochy," from a crack script by "Late Show With David Letterman" writer Adam Resnick, DeVito builds another four walls, but of a different scale. In "Smoochy's" world, children's television is nakedly corrupt and former children's TV hosts hit the skids as soon as they hit obsolescence. And -- best of all -- every demented goofball in an animal suit has groupies. DeVito throws us in with these freaks, and slams the cage shut.

Robin Williams plays Rainbow Randolph, a children's host on the take. As the story opens he's busted by the FBI, his show is cancelled and he promptly begins losing his mind. His producers Frank Stokes (Jon Stewart) and Nora Wells (Catherine Keener) cast around for a patsy to fill the time slot and promptly find one in Sheldon Mopes (Edward Norton), a do-gooder and health-food vigilante playing drug clinics in a homemade rhino suit -- "a bottle of pancake syrup with legs," Stokes tags him.

"You came here on the H train, right? Just wanting to clean up?" Mopes asks Nora innocently. She scarcely bats an eyelash as she replies, "No, but it's sweet of you to assume so." By that point every one of the characters has made a mark, through great dialogue and fierce comedic timing -- and the party's barely started.

Mopes' Smoochy immediately draws attention. The kids love him, the ratings skyrocket, and he begins to enjoy the trappings of fame: a sharp, fast-talking agent (DeVito), an executive producer's credit, and the protection of the Irish Mafia. Telling you any more of the story -- Randolph's clever revenge on Mopes, or of the giant charity conspiracy against Smoochy -- would rob you of the most fun you've had being uncomfortable.

Everyone pulls their weight -- you have to hear Norton comparing Captain Kangaroo to Jesus Christ -- but the real powerhouse behind "Smoochy" is Robin Williams. After the most depressing volley of dud roles -- from "Bicentennial Man" down -- in the annals of Hollywood, it's good to see the past master in his element once again. He is hyperactive, profane (more so than he's ever been -- don't bring the kids) and hysterically funny. He's part Mork, part Travis Bickle.

Keener is something else again. Her sexy turn in "Being John Malkovich" only suggested the damage she'd wage here as the queen of mascot groupies. She dismisses Randolph's bragging -- "I've had firmer handshakes, you drunk" -- and plays hard to get with Mopes: "I have more emotional investment in my nail polish."

The ending of the picture has to be seen to be believed. It draws equally on "The Godfather" and Fellini, and brings all the film's threads together in an antimatter explosion.

You don't finish "Death to Smoochy"; rather, it fires you out of the theater, with a malevolent laugh, a spinning head and a healthy aversion to the Teletubbies. Just watch this one become a classic.