Rumour has it that Our House was given a new title by studio bosses, desperate to halt the movie's bad word of mouth. But cheap gags aside, nothing short of a re-make with a new script could save this clunker. Which is rather surprising, given the usual pedigree of the main participants.
The plot is predictable and slight: Alex Rose (Ben Stiller) and Nancy Kendricks (Drew Barrymore) are a couple of loved up house hunters who are desperate to find their perfect home. Their real estate agent (Harvey Fierstein) introduces them to a property in Brooklyn. Having fallen in love with the gorgeous building, the couple find their dreams of domestic bliss sullied by the presence of old widow, Mrs Connelly (Eileen Essell) on the top floor of their home. Unable to evict her due to rent laws, the couple begin to hatch ever more devious schemes to remove the old dear from the equation.
Our House might have its moments of humour, but the film's tone feels forced, oscillating wildly between gentle farce and devious gross out humour. This disparity in style never allows Our House to find a natural rhythm, with Stiller's increasingly frazzled screen personna wearing a little thin, while Barrymore is something of a bystander. Had Our House taken a little more time finding its centre, this could have been something worthwhile. As it is, this is no more than half an idea.
