This movie is just about as bad as one might expect it to be. Actually, it’s worse than that, and even worse than the two preceding Big Momma movies, something I didn’t think was possible. Martin Lawrence returns as Malcolm, the FBI agent who goes undercover as Big Momma, the obese alter ego that is so obviously somebody wearing a fat suit. Lawrence, of course, returns to his worn-out shtick of talking really slow and wheezy in making believe he’s an old Southern woman in a muumuu. The twist this time out is that Malcolm’s son, Trent (Brandon T. Jackson, a long way from his Tropic Thunder glory days) witnesses a murder, and must now dress as a woman, too. His alter ego is Charmaine, and he can switch into his gear quicker than Clark Kent becoming Superman. Malcolm and Trent wind up going undercover and chasing evidence at an all-girl art school, where Big Momma becomes House Mother and gets a residence among the young women. So you basically get Bosom Buddies without the comic genius that was Tom Hanks and Peter Scolari.