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Onstage at the Black Neon pathetic female dancers move their bodies to make their breasts bounce. Enter Chris Farley as a ninja-school dropout. During his training it was food that distracted him, but now that he's fled his adoptive family in Japan to rescue a California girl in distress, it's women. He plants himself center stage and, improvising on a dancer's restrained technique, licks his fingers and rips his T-shirt aside so he can rub his own ample breast. It makes me sick all over again just describing this—the most affecting scene in a sluggish would-be comedy that reflects the dubious state of the art of fat male comedians exploiting themselves in 1997, the year its star died. Each time Farley enters the posh hotel where he's rented a suite he removes his shoes, as he was accustomed to doing at home. He leaves them on the sidewalk, and a hotel employee sweeps them away. The punch line: this happens several times before Farley notices. Written by Mark Feldberg and Mitch Klebanoff and directed by Dennis Dugan.

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