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In European film circles, Peter and Bobby Farrelly are considered worthy successors to Preston Sturges and Billy Wilder, but in Washington, D.C., they’re viewed as nothing more than “fetid cocktail” bartenders. I’m reminded of a quote of Wilder’s: “I’m accused of being vulgar, so much the better. That proves I’m closer to life.” The British Film Institute has invited Peter Farrelly to address the noted institution, but the Washington City Paper would rather quickly dismiss the Farrelly brothers as vulgarians. I will admit that Me, Myself & Irene is nowhere nearly as good as the underrated comic masterpiece Kingpin or the ultra-madcap There’s Something About Mary, but I was not disappointed. I couldn’t tell from the City Paper’s review (“Kidding Around,” 6/23) if Mark Jenkins found the film funny. He spent most of the review cataloging the film’s transgressions of political correctness but made no note of whether he had laughed or not. He quickly makes a checklist of what minorities were offended by Me, Myself & Irene: “little people, blacks, and mental patients…albinos, lesbians, children, nursing mothers, various barnyard animals…” The smartest characters in the film are Carrey’s black sons and the black “midget limo driver.” The stupidest people in the film are white people—the only white person who has a clue is Whitey, the albino. I found it refreshing to see the dwarf get the girl; Billy Barty never got the girl, unless she was able to measure up to him. I wasn’t sure Jenkins actually saw the film from reading his review, because it has the semblance of being stitched together after watching the film’s preview and reading the press kit.