Kill me now. Frank Oz can do funny (Dirty Rotten Scoundrels), but this retreat from the debacle of The Stepford Wives picks only the lowest-hanging laughs from the olde English country home farce. One mourner's accidentally been dosed with acid; a wheelchair-bound coot heaps abuse on everyone when not afflicted with diarrhea; and the shit from same—so much for English politeness—splatters the face of a hypochondriac. (Somewhere in the Cotswolds, I'm pretty sure, Hugh Grant is using this dusty old script to prop up a table leg.) Then there are two bereaved sons, one a successful novelist and the other not, who argue over who should pay for dad's funeral. Clothes are shed and coffins knocked over, but none of these comic engines can push a wingless fuselage aloft, which just leaves the actors flapping their arms. Even poor Peter Dinklage shows up as a gay American blackmailer—and the best you can hope for Death is that his character clocks out early to preserve a little dignity. No chance of that for Oz.