Maybe I was the only guy to miss it in the theaters. You can imagine my cautious optimism when I spied The Foursome in the local rental joint. I snatched it up, hoping that the pantheon whereby Caddyshack, Happy Gilmore and Dead Solid Perfect reside might have room for one more deity. Nah.
The Foursome reunites four college friends with the usual assortment of issues, both past and present, for a weekend of golf and reminiscing. It feel apart for me when the “bonding moment,” the one we all have had with friends, was revealed to be a really crappy song: 18 ’til I die. Geez, what a terrible song!
The golf? 1/4 of the swings are acceptable golf swings. Rick and Cam both have fluid downswings, but the “getting there,” the backswings, are enough to make Craig Parry throw up on Johnny Miller. The other two guys? Nah. The beyond-typecast swishy marshal boy provides a laugh or two, but in the end, it’s a sappy double bogey. Sorry, gang.
07/27/07 @ 07:45 
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