While half of Hollywood heads off in the direction of Schindler's List, Philadelphia or In The Name Of The Father mature, thought-provoking, halfway decent films there is clearly still a collection of folk in Tinseltown insisting that a third instalment of an enjoyable one-joke movie made with no imagination, irony or flair is a really, really good idea. Memo to TriStar, makers of this film: it isn't.
So, who's talking this time? The dogs! Danny De Vito (a street-smart mutt) and Diane Keaton (a toffy-nosed poodle) belong, of course, to John Travolta (roll on Tarantino's Pulp Fiction to save his career), Kirstie Alley (roll on a decent script for this underrated comedienne) and their two brats (David Gallagher and Tabitha Lupien, roll on schooltime).
Well, Danny DeVito belongs to them, but Diane Keaton was donated by Travolta's new boss Lysette Anthony, who's British and therefore a baddie and whose crush on him is the only shred of actual story herein.
Lacking the wit to knowingly "homage" Lady And The Tramp, this merely rips it off, piling on the evidence that no one involved could be bothered to think of a decent joke or even muster the enthusiasm to get the dogs (who aren't in it enough to entertain the youngsters in the audience anyway) to look as if they're saying what they're meant to be saying. It gets a star simply for existing, of course, and another one for the animal trainers who organised the wolf fight at the end. Tragically, however, it loses that one for lacking the fun, zest or originality films like this need so much.