Yours, Mine and Ours Movie Review

Three major studios (Sony, Paramount, and MGM) collaborated on one motion picture, and this is the result? A moronic mingling of massive families, Brady Bunch style, that isn’t satisfied until father figure Dennis Quaid is coated in a sticky paste and pummeled into submission? That thinks it’s amusing when one child pukes, but hilarious when another child slips in it? That somehow convinces Oscar winner Linda Hunt to attempt a demoralizing joke involving her pink thong? I’ve long since accepted that Hollywood requires its family comedies to be juvenile, but do they need to be so dumb?

Raja Gosnell’s Yours, Mine and Ours is a remake of a mediocre Lucille Ball-Henry Fonda pairing that couldn’t be further from the original. This version reunites former sweethearts Frank Beardsley (Quaid) and Helen North (Rene Russo), except now they’re widows heading up huge families – he has eight children, she has 10. While attending their high school reunion, the two are pleasantly surprised to find that the feelings they once shared still exist. In the very next scene – which we have to assume occurs the day after the reunion – Frank and Helen are telling their respective broods that they tied the knot, forming one gigantic disaster of a family.

Such a gaping plot hole would nag most viewers, but Ours either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. It simply uses the impromptu marriage as an excuse to catapult the assorted characters into an implausible setup, where the opposite clans must learn to live together under one roof.

Potentially sweet family dynamics are buried under a relentless parade of pratfalls and harmful household disasters (see also Cheaper by the Dozen). Among all the chaos, Quaid and Russo – who each deserve better – connect as a couple seriously attempting to overcome their inherent differences At least, until Gosnell, the maestro behind Big Momma’s House and the Scooby-Doo adventures, gets his hands on another bucket of fluid to dump over Quaid’s head.

If only Frank and Helen had spent 10 additional minutes getting to know each other a little bit better. She’d see he was a control freak. He’d realize how much he couldn’t stand her carefree ways. They would be spared every ridiculous conflict imagined by screenwriters Ron Burch and David Kidd, and we would be spared from this humiliating mess.

Now: 20 paces.