Starring: Kimberly
Elise, Steve Harris, Tyler Perry, Shemar Moore, Lisa Marcos, Tamara
Taylor, Cicely Tyson. Written by Tyler Perry. Directed by Darren
Grant.
Rated PG-13 - for drug
content, thematic elements, crude sexual references and some violence
No, no,
I know what you’re thinking. But “Diary
of a Mad Black Woman” is not, actually,
the true life story of Michael Jackson. Instead, it’s the
straightforward tale of a woman who is cheated on, dumped, humiliated,
and then forced to pick up the pick up the pieces. Will she recover?
Will she ever love again? Will she die in a tragic blimp accident?
Kimberly
Elise (“Woman, Thou Art Loosed”) stars as Helen, the
mad black woman. Helen is married to a successful lawyer, but
he clearly doesn’t respect her or their marriage. In fact,
this sleazy lawyer (Steve Harris) is the most cartoonishly evil
love-interest since “Cal” from Titanic. He snarls
when he talks. He’s selfish. And after cheating on her for
some low-rent hussie, he throws Helen out of her own house, literally
shoving her out the door.
So Helen is mad. This, then, is
where we shift to the predictable part of the movie where she’s
depressed, struggles, then learns to stand on her own feet . .
. right? Oddly, no. In one of the most dramatic jumps in tone
since, well, never, the movie suddenly turns into a wacky, screwball
comedy. And it all starts with Helen’s grandmother, Madea.
Featured prominently in the film’s
marketing campaign, Madea is the wisecracking, ass-kicking grandmother
who’s played by a man—stage legend Tyler Perry. For
the uninitiated, Madea is a recurring character in Tyler Perry’s
plays, such as Madea Goes to Jail and Madea’s Family Reunion.
In “Diary,” Madea has the bulk of a linebacker, the
maturity of a 5th grader, and the mouth of a crusty sailor. In
one scene she destroys Charlses’s furniture with a chainsaw,
in another she tells “Your Momma’s so fat…”
jokes.
Madea’s
antics have their moments. Like when she says of a relative, who’s
a deadbeat junkie, “That girl needs to go out and do something
construction!” Madea is a shot in the arm. But you know
what? Sometimes you’re feeling just fine, and you don’t
really need a shot in the arm. Particularly if it’s heroin.
The low-brow comedy is so jarring, so abrasive, it thieves both
energy and momentum from Helen’s storyline.
Speaking of Helen. Just as she
loses her husband, she gains a new man (of course she does! It’s
a movie made in Hollywood!), Orlando, played with tough-but-sensitive-dreaminess
by Shemar Moore. Orlando must be director Darren Grant’s
vision of the ideal boyfriend. As Helen breathlessly says to her
diary, Orlando is “beautiful, strong, sensitive, and Christian.”
And Christian. This becomes the
dominant theme of “Diary’s” third act. First,
just some subtle references to God. Next, every character takes
turns saying, “Lord, have mercy!” (Perfect for a drinking
game.) Finally, the spiritual takes front and center. Some choir
scenes are embarrassingly soap-boxy, making “The Passion
of the Christ” look downright secular. And as she struggles
to forgive her husband, Helen tells her diary that she should
“wake up each morning and thank God you did. And ask the
savior to help you.”
Maybe
the savior should have helped Darren Grant avoid clichés.
For one, the diary itself is a dangerous cinematic device. Sure,
it’s a convenient, easily digestible way to handle exposition,
backstory, and characters’ motivation. “Dear Diary—I’m
so mad!” On the other hand, it’s often a lazy, sloppy
shortcut for actually showing that the character is mad. At one
point Helen writes in her diary, “I’m finding myself
laughing and smiling.” No kidding. The audience can see
her laughing and smiling.
The clichés are bad enough,
but “Diary” also suffers from two laugh-out-loud-awful
subplots. One concerns the deadbeat junkie, whose only hope seems
to be, you guessed it, trusting in the savior. We’re given
no reason to care about the junkie or the junkie’s kids.
Similarly, a meandering, wooden storyline about Sleazy-Husband
disrupts what little pacing there is.
“Diary” is a movie
that you really want to like. Kimberly Elise is magnificent and
the story has a good moral (sort of). But can you really like
a movie with dialogue like, “I know that you don’t
believe in fairy tales. But if you did, I want to be your knight
in shining armor.”
Kimberly
Elise (“Woman, Thou Art Loosed”) stars as Helen, the
mad black woman. Helen is married to a successful lawyer, but
he clearly doesn’t respect her or their marriage. In fact,
this sleazy lawyer (Steve Harris) is the most cartoonishly evil
love-interest since “Cal” from Titanic. He snarls
when he talks. He’s selfish. And after cheating on her for
some low-rent hussie, he throws Helen out of her own house, literally
shoving her out the door. 
Madea’s
antics have their moments. Like when she says of a relative, who’s
a deadbeat junkie, “That girl needs to go out and do something
construction!” Madea is a shot in the arm. But you know
what? Sometimes you’re feeling just fine, and you don’t
really need a shot in the arm. Particularly if it’s heroin.
The low-brow comedy is so jarring, so abrasive, it thieves both
energy and momentum from Helen’s storyline. 
Maybe
the savior should have helped Darren Grant avoid clichés.
For one, the diary itself is a dangerous cinematic device. Sure,
it’s a convenient, easily digestible way to handle exposition,
backstory, and characters’ motivation. “Dear Diary—I’m
so mad!” On the other hand, it’s often a lazy, sloppy
shortcut for actually showing that the character is mad. At one
point Helen writes in her diary, “I’m finding myself
laughing and smiling.” No kidding. The audience can see
her laughing and smiling.