‘Yard’ plays up middle school humor

An eighth-grade sense of humor isn’t necessarily a horrible thing. Most sane people have a juvenile streak lurking somewhere beneath that well-comported surface.

But when you combine that juvenilia with willful stupidity and laziness behind the camera, you get a sorry excuse for a movie. You get the painfully unnecessary remake of “The Longest Yard.”

You know the type of jokes we’re talking about. He’s gay. Heh-heh. He soiled himself. Hah. That big guy talks funny. Snicker. Now, wash it all down with some wooden-eared sports cliches (“You busted your knee for us; we’ll bust our (butt) for you”) and sanctimonious, pseudo- inspirational blather.

Of course, it’s not like they went and monkeyed around with a work of art. The original “Longest Yard” was an affable slice of bawdy ‘70s fun about a former NFL star (Burt Reynolds, who has a decent-size part in the remake) who goes to prison and organizes a team of convicts to play football against the sadistic guards. Capably directed by the old pro Robert Aldrich, “The Longest Yard” was comfortably nestled in a time capsule of mid-level Nixon-era nostalgia.

And now it’s the latest leftover platter to be turned into a Hollywood-style junk meal. Adam Sandler, who executive-produced the remake, plays the incarcerated quarterback, in the pen for leading the LAPD on a high- speed chase in his woman’s Bentley. His pigskin crime actually came years earlier, when he got busted for shaving points. But now he’s in a Texas prison, which means all-you-can-eat sodomy and bathroom jokes, plus Chris Rock microwaving some of his flatter racial humor as the prison’s fixer, Caretaker. He may be the funniest guy in the world, but he still can’t land himself in a decent movie.

Former NFL players, including Michael Irvin, Bill Romanowski and Brian Bosworth, do their best to make the football scenes look less cartoonish. The rapper Nelly acquits himself well as a speedy tailback. James Cromwell is sufficiently oily and ornery as the crooked warden; he even cuts something of an LBJ figure with his long, angular limbs and Texas twang.

But the egregious cameo and product placement bracket is dominated by four letters: ESPN. There’s the parade of talent, including Chris Berman, rumbling and stumbling through trademark phrases and nicknames. Blowhard football commentator Sean Salisbury shows up and has his picture taken with Sandler. Dan Patrick smirks his way through a small role as a cop.

All seem quite pleased with themselves, and why not? Why bother playing journalists on TV when you can just suck up to movie stars on the big screen?