how not to get on a critic’s shit list
The balls of an email I just received!
The balls of an email I just received!

Derivative, rote, devoid of heart and hope. Guy Ritchie has found no reason to retell Arthur’s story, or to render a mythic hero as a self-serving thug.

Replicates the abusive experience of being served a meal by noted hotelier and ball of rage Basil Fawlty in his Torquay lodging establishment. It is an absolute riot.
I’m floored by its breakdown of toxic masculinity and toxic femininity… [This post is not behind the paywall.]
Saturday Night Live is on fire lately.

The cast is charming, but this listless and mysteriously unfunny cover of the 1949 Ealing comedy doesn’t seem to have bothered to look for a good reason to exist.

Wants to tackle huge personal and societal problems — toxic masculinity; the collapse of traditional ways of life — but it only displays them freak-show style.

Tragic hipster indulges in the tribal Amazonian divine. Credulous, sophomoric garbage full of the slick salesmanship of a vaguely spiritual sneaker commercial.

A rote disappointment. There is nothing shocking or even mildly unexpected here. But there is an ironic weakening of the power of the xenomorphs to terrify.
David Hasselhoff, you ain’t shit next to Richard Thorncroft.