In Los Angeles, sassy, self-admiring Darnell Wright and his main man Tee are promoters for a dance club called Chocolate City. Their lives consist of inviting as many beautiful women as possible to the club and, they hope, conquering them. Love and commitment, of course, are out of the question.

Darnell falls for Brandi Web, a cold-as-ice executive who runs a lucrative real estate company and has no time for horny little squirts. Naturally, this only encourages him. Brandi finally relents under his romantic pressure.

Darnell discovers too late that Brandi, who killed her husband for allegedly abusing her, has a rather psychopathic approach to love. When he tries to extricate himself from the relationship, she goes on the warpath. Darnell realizes that he's in big danger; also that he's really in love with his childhood friend Mia. -- Desson Howe

By Desson Howe
Washington Post Staff Writer
April 05, 1996

Martin Lawrence depends on two things in "A Thin Line Between Love & Hate": his apparently precious personality and the enmity between the genders. He gives you a lot of both in this uneven, pedestrian comedy, whose time-eating storyline suggests a front-end collision between "House Party 2" and "Basic Instinct."

The usual rap-sploitation values apply: Men dig fast cars, plenty of women and money, while women yearn hopelessly for a dependable man. Partisan audience participation is actively encouraged: You're invited to boo, laugh or cheer for your gender whenever appropriate. But yawning should also be considered an option.

In Los Angeles, sassy, self-admiring Darnell Wright (Lawrence) and his main man Tee (Bobby Brown) are promoters for a dance club called Chocolate City. Their lives consist of inviting as many beautiful women as possible to the club and, they hope, conquering them. Love and commitment, of course, are out of the question. Appealing premise, huh?

On the flirtation rounds, Darnell falls for Brandi Web (Lynn Whitfield), a cold-as-ice executive who runs a lucrative real estate company and has no time for horny little squirts. Naturally, this only encourages him. Brandi finally relents under his romantic pressure, mainly because the plot requires it.

Darnell discovers too late that Brandi, who killed her husband for allegedly abusing her, has a rather psychopathic approach to love. When he tries to extricate himself from the relationship, she goes on the warpath, vandalizing his car and the club in the process.

Darnell realizes that he's in big danger; also that he's really in love with his childhood friend Mia (Regina King), a much nicer romantic prospect who has become quite a woman since she joined the Air Force.

Lawrence is funny when he's doing visual slapstick. Attempting to impress Brandi with his non-existent equestrian skills, he tumbles off a horse. Then, trying to walk away with dignity, he staggers stiffly in hysterically scattered directions. But most of the movie consists of Lawrence, who directed the film and co-wrote the script, training his enrapt camera on himself: Now that's the real love affair going on here. "A Thin Line" never seems to end. You could compose, record and promote an entire album waiting for Darnell to choose between his women. But at least the movie's equal opportunity: Neither gender seems to deserve support.

By Rita Kempley
Washington Post Staff Writer
April 03, 1996

Martin Lawrence, director, producer and star of "A Thin Line Between Love and Hate," was so busy talking trash that he didn't notice he was making it, too. The movie, in which Lawrence fancies himself a Casanova, just plain stinks from its lewd, witless beginning to its mean-spirited, misogynistic end.

Lawrence, who shares writing credits with Bentley Kyle Evans, Kenny Buford and Kim Bass, takes a stab at turning "Fatal Attraction" into a romantic farce. Designed to fit the Fox TV star's broad, bawdy humor, the script is not the cautionary tale it pretends to be, but a vanity production of enormous insincerity.

Sluggishly paced and largely uneventful, the film and its madly mugging star work overtime—if futilely—to establish the romantic credentials of the coarse self-promoter Darnell Wright (Lawrence). "I have the gift of gab and a smile that can book any woman's [expletive]," brags Darnell, who spends some time nuzzling, licking and tickling the ears of a bevy of dark lovelies.

When he isn't amorously occupied, Darnell runs a club called Chocolate City with his friend and fellow womanizer Tee (singer Bobby Brown). Following a successful meeting with the club's owner, Darnell and Tee are dreaming up ways of putting "more chocolate in Chocolate City" when they meet the provocative Brandi (intense, elegant Lynn Whitfield).

A classy real estate agent with a Beverly Hills clientele, Brandi is a Godiva truffle to Darnell's Snickers bar. She clearly has nothing in common with this pushy little weasel, but he persists and finally Brandi melts. She warns him that there'll be trouble if he isn't wholly committed to the relationship, but Darnell pays no heed. He tells her he loves her, scores in the sack, then sneaks downstairs to phone Tee to report his success.

The very next night—only it feels like longer—Darnell stands up Brandi. The next morning, the seriously psychotic Brandi begins stalking the creep. No matter how Lawrence works to make the character sympathetic, Darnell seems to deserve the "boiled bunny" treatment. Whitfield, on the other hand, is convincingly tormented by the hero's callousness.

The movie's most uncalled-for and ugliest scenes attest to the callousness of the filmmaker himself. Brandi's pursuit of Darnell goes from mildly distracting to actively insane when she batters herself and blames poor innocent Darnell. At long last, someone has uncovered the truth: Men don't abuse women; they abuse themselves. The line may be thin, all right, but Lawrence has stepped over it.