Me, Myself & Irene

This offering lacks the sweet subtext and buried heart that marks the films of the Farrelly brothers from Kingpin to There's Something About Mary. It's dominated by Carrey as hyperbolically nice Rhode Island motorcycle cop Charlie who finally cracks, turns into alter ego Hank, and is diagnosed with 'advanced delusionary schizophrenia with involuntary narcissistic rage'. The brothers have tackled race, class, status, delinquency, sexual relations, social alienation, paranoia, disability and now madness through lavatory humour, cheap gags, crass offensiveness, pratfalls and all-round puerile goonery, hung together by ad hoc plotting and point the camera styling. And they've raised some of the richest, most uncomfortable, laughs in recent cinema. But what's a poor taboo breaker to do? Don't ask: here they ram one right up a character's arse. Their adolescent fear/idolisation of women is represented by the unpersuasive Zellweger as the fugitive Irene. But for turning positive discrimination - Charlie/Hank's delightful trio of overweight African-American sons, fruit of the congress of his wife and a Mensa-minded midget cab driver, are bright enough to fly a helicopter from first principles - into hilarious, affectionate comedy, they win my PC award.