Liar Liar, the 1997 Jim Carrey comedy about a dishonest man whose son makes a birthday wish condemning his dad to tell the truth for 24 hours, could have been about a doctor. Or a sanitation worker. Or a restaurateur. But what fun would any of that be? No, Carrey’s Fletcher Reede had to be a lawyer, because in the public imagination lawyers lie — constantly, for a living, without shame. The truth is relative or even irrelevant when it comes to winning a case. And so, Fletcher is an attorney who delights in getting “not guilty” verdicts for guilty, or at least unscrupulous, clients.
It’s a great setup for Carrey, who, when Liar Liar was made, was still the king of movie comedy. Fletcher contorts his face and body as he struggles mightily against the unnatural act of telling the truth. He’s not just incapable of lying; he’s compelled to inflict brutal honesty on all comers, even (especially?) when it goes against all of his personal interests. Early in his crisis his secretary hands him the phone, explaining that the client on the other end has robbed (another) ATM machine. Fletcher yells into the receiver: “Stop breaking the law, asshole!” Pretty sound advice, when you think about it.
It’s hard to explain to those who weren’t there at the time just how funny Carrey was at his ‘90s peak. His movies could be incredibly juvenile — Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, anyone? — and he often took a beating from critics. But at his an anarchic best, including Liar Liar, Dumb and Dumber and the brazenly dark Cable Guy, he was a rubbery, spontaneous dynamo, the equal of another hyperkinetic clown who took a drubbing from the intelligentsia (except in France), Jerry Lewis. He could also excel in more serious roles; The Truman Show and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind find him digging deep into existential matters of identity and authenticity. In short, his talent has aged well.
On the one hand, Liar Liar is a gooey family dramedy about a little urchin (Justin Cooper, effectively urchin-like) who just wants to spend more time with his dad, gosh darn it. And maybe get him to stop lying. But that’s all secondary to the movie’s central joke — a lawyer who can no longer lie is in for some trying times — and Carrey’s execution of the premise. When he actually enters the courtroom, representing a crass, philandering money-grubber (Jennifer Tilly) looking to soak her husband in a divorce/custody case, he nearly explodes with comic energy. Then, desperately seeking a recess, he physically assaults himself in a courthouse men’s room, a display of physical comedy up there with the actor’s best work. Carrey’s courtroom antics make Al Pacino in And Justice for All look like a wilting flower.
The movie gets one significant demerit for the ugliness of its sexual politics, which stand out more in 2024 than they did in 1997. Fletcher’s ball-busting boss, played by Amanda Donahoe, is a craven shark who forces herself on Fletcher as she wields the promise of becoming partner over his head. Tilly’s character is even worse, an opportunistic, bed-hopping harpy (redeemed somewhat by Tilly’s comic chops). Fletcher’s ex-wife (Maura Tierney) whiles away her time with a wishy-washy bore (Cary Elwes) whose primary purpose is to make Fletcher look exciting by comparison. Liar Liar is laden with a peculiar form of male anxiety about what happens when women just don’t know their place. The majority of the movie’s main female characters aren’t merely comedically convenient. They’re also just immoral, superficial human beings. None of which is reason enough to avoid Liar Liar. This is a case where one big joke yields enough laughs to fill a movie (and with a running time of just 86 minutes, the movie is wise enough to load up on yuks and exit the stage in a timely fashion). Carrey didn’t do a lot of broad comedies after this one; in recent years he’s grown more cerebral and surreal, as in the Showtime series Kidding, in which he played an unraveling children’s TV star. Liar Liar reminds us that, for a time, he was the best clown around. And that’s no lie.