Baby Driver is a nerdy genre movie. It’s sort of like a know-it-all guy named Dexter wearing Arthur Fonzarelli’s leather jacket to trivia night at the pub. It looks cool at first, but the coolness doesn’t hold up to inspection. It was borrowed and tacked on. Underneath it, there’s still Dexter, and he’s still a dork.
It is the comic book equivalent of 24 hours of porn. One big fight is great. Two is okay. But by the 40th time some dude in armor shoots lasers out of his hands, the joy is long gone and you’re just praying the whole fucking thing will end.
It took five minutes for me to realize A Simple Favor isn’t meant for me. I’m sure it has its purpose, as does the Chilton repair manual for a 1988 Geo Metro. But I have no fucking clue how to use either. No matter how many times I’ve dreamed of owning a Metro, I could…
The Art of Self-Defense is a fart of a movie. The thing about farts, though, is people don’t mind their own. In fact, director Stearns is probably pretty fucking proud of this one.
The plot is sort of like a truck full of tube socks. Nobody gives a shit whether it makes it to the destination except the people selling them.
American Made is a Tom Cruise movie. He flies planes, gets shot at, humps a hot wife, and shows us more teeth than a frightened baboon.
The Fifty Shades of Grey series is about two intensely dull people—assholes, really—with a buttload of money and, well, a black hole where personality should be.
