What do war, famine, disease and poverty have in common? They're four of the few things in life less funny than The Doorman, an excruciating, run-for-the-hills mockumentary about a famous international gatekeeper to ritzy nightclubs. Think Borat with 99 percent less ingenuity and humor. And, in fact, keep thinking about Sacha Baron Cohen's befuddled Kazakhstani journalist, or fluffy clouds on a warm summer day, or your first kiss, or anything else that makes you smile, as conjuring up memories of happier experiences gone by is the prime means of enduring such across-the-board ineptitude.
The dolt at the center of this fiasco is Trevor (Lucas Akoskin), a doofus with an ambiguous European accent, an ego the size of the Pacific Ocean, a taste for overblown threads, and a predilection for Yogi Berra-isms. "I know people. And more importantly, I know people who know me," is typical of Trevor's self-consciously dumb dialogue, though he's not alone in delivering leaden bon mots, as evidenced by one doltish woman's claim that "The Doorman is God, really." Which, I guess, makes me an unrepentant atheist.