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If you know anything at all about Martin Lawrence,
you know that his multifaceted career as an actor, director,
comedian, and producer has had more ups than downs. He’s been
successfully sharing his impish energy on the big screen since
1989 with films such as Do The Right Thing, Boomerang,
Bad Boys and most recently Black Knight. On the
small screen Lawrence’s “Martin” had a healthy five-year run
ending in the late-nineties, only to find itself currently
in syndication for what will probably be years to come. As
far as downs go, well, he’s gotten a bit of bad press for
having a few run-ins with the law, but have they affected
his career? The man probably makes a few more dollars than
John Lithgow and has had fewer gaps in his career than
most A-listers. So along comes Martin Lawrence Live: Runteldat,
Lawrence’s documentary style film that means to rectify his
media-tarnished reputation. But just after a few minutes of
it, I wonder, Runtelwhat?
The first third of the film passed quickly as a triptych
of overlapping footage taken from Lawrence’s early years.
Past performances, interviews, news reports, etc., outline
his career, ending with a barrage of mildly negative criticism
gifted to him by his detractors in the media. This snappy
introduction a la MTV, a co-producer of Martin Lawrence
Live, eventually transitions into the Runteldat concert
filmed in Washington, D.C. on January 25 and 26, 2002. And
soon after the vulgarity feast begins! Not without, however,
uttering his grateful appreciation to the Almighty for guiding
his career and sparing his life from a three-day fever-induced
coma. But once he gets going, taking his time to warm up to
the audience and his theme, nothing culturally sacred to humanity
is safe from his obscene and entertaining commentary. Marriage,
the birth of his children, his views on corporal punishment,
Bin Laden, sex, and the Civil Rights Movement are just a few
examples of bullseyes on his verbal dartboard. He ends with
a mockery of his life’s darkest period, topping it with a
description of traumatic sex which merits no further discussion.
In addition and typical of Lawrence’s comedic style, his gestural
choreography and facial expressions garnered the most laughs
from the audiences both on screen and off. But overall, the
laughs could’ve lasted longer throughout the film. Despite
his intention to tell the truth about his trials and tribulations,
which he proudly survives, his performance lacked enough personal
anecdote and depth for the audience to sympathize with Lawrence.
Spending much time on excessive commentary often unrelated
to his difficult period made the very experiences he wished
to highlight seem trite, possibly indicating that the film
should have taken the plunge from being just styled after
a documentary to actually being one. Reliance on Lawrence’s
stage performance teetered on the verge of being too dull
to make a decent feature film.
There’s not much to tell about Runteldat. Lawrence
more than exercises his right to both entertain and vent,
which for die-hard Lawrence fans might just be okay. However,
this film lacks the depth and courage to be labeled a documentary
in any way. And as happy as we become for Lawrence in his
declaration of personal triumph, we’ll just have to take his
word for it because his film won’t help us in that regard.
Save your pennies for the rental.
—Maria G. Rios
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