There are a few ways I considered mocking the new film The Next Best Thing.  I could have chosen to go with a hilarious send-up of the title and say that Madonna’s new project is The Next Best Thong, a riveting expose about how she chooses which underwear to purchase at Victoria’s Secret (“Show me the next best thong, dah-ling”).  I could have gone with the Rupert Everett gay angle and said something pretentious like “The Queen of Pop and the Queen of England.”  Or I could have said that The Next Best Thing to slamming your head in the car door would be to see this film.

The beauty of The Next Best Thing is that it’s not necessary to mock it.  It mocks itself for you.  The film starts out mildly interesting at best, before taking a very unexpected turn and spinning completely out of control.  After the sixty-minute point rolls around, the person sitting next to you may politely ask you to stop checking your watch every five minutes because the blue glow keeps waking him up.  After that, the only reason you might choose to stick around is the challenge of trying to figure out how they’re going to end the stupid movie without it seeming like a really bad sitcom pilot.  But that’s where Thing really steps up to the plate, ending the film with absolutely no resolution.  Hey, as long as it ended, I didn’t much care.

Thing attempts to capitalize on America’s undying love for homosexuals…as long as they’re either well-chiseled or funny and sing show tunes.  Madonna (Evita) plays Abbie, a successful thirtysomething yoga instructor with a biological clock that’s about to overheat thanks to being dumped by her current beau (Michael Vartan, Never Been Kissed).  Her best friend Robert (Everett, Inspector Gadget) is a successful thirtysomething landscaper and prefers hot dogs to donuts.  After Abbie laments the mandatory “There aren’t any good straight guys left in L.A.,” the two get drunk on the fourth of July and knock boots as the fireworks explode in the background.

Of course, their one sexual encounter impregnates Abbie, who ignores Robert for weeks before finally dropping the bomb.  “You can be the baby’s father or the baby’s uncle,” she says, and, predictably, he chooses the former, as the two plan to live together and raise the kid.  The pregnancy lasts for about three minutes (Madonna just doesn’t do morning sickness), and from the way the film is edited their offspring Sam (Malcolm Stumpf) appears to be born a theatrical, buck-toothed first-grader that’s just old enough to know that something is definitely rotten in Denmark.

To make matters worse, Abbie starts dating an investment banker (Benjamin Bratt, Law & Order), which is when Thing begins to display all of the jealousy that you would expect from both your typical hetero/homo romance and a script from the guy that wrote Look Who’s Talking Now (Thomas Ropelewski).  Thing is so uneven, I heard that they’re considering using it for women’s gymnastics in the upcoming Olympic games.

Thing also features the most annoying lighting since The Mirror Has Two Faces.  Madonna is not only perpetually backlit, but also has a constant source of light shining on directly on her face.  It’s like a combination of Doris Day and Anjelica Huston’s Morticia Addams, and it grows more and more disturbing as the film progresses.  One has to wonder if Ms. M demanded slick cinematographer Elliot Davis (Out of Sight, Forces of Nature) light her that way, so as not to reveal that she’s a craggy old woman.  On the plus side, she does a pretty good job of hiding her suspicious British accent.

An interesting note, actor Michael Vartan is only in the film for about five minutes, but manages to have another Ferris wheel scene, a la his ride with Drew Barrymore in Never Been Kissed.

1:47 - for sexual content, brief nudity and adult language