Okay, okay, there aren’t many summer movies that you’re willing to take the younger kids to, and something has to fill that void, so Mr. Popper’s Penguins is pretty much your only non-animated choice.
It’s odd, because I don’t think of Jim Carrey as being much of an attraction for kids, but it’s likely intended as a draw for the 30-something parents looking for a non-panda-centric film to placate their brood. Or for those who loved the 1938 book as kids themselves, though I never read it, and, from what I gather, it’s vastly different.
Carrey plays Popper, a semi-weasel (would that make him a ferret?) of a real estate agent with a golden tongue and flair for convincing hard cases to sell their property to his high-risin’ New York firm. In this, he’s ably aided by his alliterative assistant Pippi (Ophelia Lovibond), an adorably saucy little Brit with an impediment that causes her to pepper her speech with a proliferation of p’s. One day Popper receives a crate from his recently deceased father, a world-renowned explorer who never had time for his son, and in it is a penguin, which proceeds to destroy Popper’s apartment and provide the first in a series of unnervingly graphic defecations.
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