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Conjuring a legitimate parallel to the Marci X Experience is tough, but it’s probably not too different from watching B*A*P*S while being beaten, repeatedly and brutally, with a large stick. The typically delightful Lisa Kudrow delights not at all as Marci Feld, a blond, pink-dressed Jewish-American princess who gives impassioned banquet speeches about providing shampoo and conditioner for the homeless. When her CEO father falls ill, the bubbly Marci takes it upon herself to quell the public-relations firestorm generated by Dr. S (Damon Wayans), a gangsta rapper hidden away on a record label deep within the holdings of the Feldco Corp. Marci X has been on the shelf for two years, but that doesn’t explain the badly dated PMRC-vs.-music-industry-ripped plot—or, for that matter, the extreme ignorance of all things hiphop demonstrated by the film’s screenplay, written by In & Out and Addams Family Values scribe Paul Rudnick. How is it possible, for example, that a supposedly thugged-out rapper would spout Vanilla Ice’s “Word to your mother” without a trace of self-awareness or irony? Yet Wayans’ Dr. S is about as edgy—and as desiccated—as the rapping grandma from The Wedding Singer. He’s so nonthreatening, in fact, that it’s hard to figure why Tipper Gore-like Sen. Mary Ellen Spinkle (Christine Baranski) is offended by his music, typified by the curse-free “The Power in My Pants,” which he performs for a seated crowd complete with synchronized dance moves. The only reason that he’s menacing at all, it soon becomes clear, is because he’s black: Marci and her shrill friends alternate between purse-clutching fear and unstoppable sexual attraction toward Dr. S and his entourage. But the film’s most uncomfortable moments—say, when Marci asks Dr. S, “When black people make love, is it different?”—at least provide a respite. When you’re really offended, it’s easy to forget you’re not laughing. —Josh Levin