There’s charm and wit in its fanciful depiction of the creative process, but the film downplays the social activism that Dickens fully embraced in his work.
This rushed sequel is an insult to its progenitor movie. A cheap knockoff that doesn’t understand what made Bad Moms so smart, funny, and feminist-wise.
Appalling and sadistic. How can anyone who is not a sociopath look at this horrible attempt at feel-good fantasy and say, “This is fine, this is healthy”?
Hangover lite, with even more tepid notions of what constitutes debauchery, plus a true dedication to strained contrivance.
Hard to believe it took 13 years to get a sequel to our screens and still have it show not a hint of Bad Santa’s inspiration or subversion.
Flawless in every way: sumptuous visually and emotionally. One of the more mature and sophisticated romances the big screen has ever seen.
It’s bogged down by too many derailing tangents, but the three appealing leads have a wonderful chemistry, and it gets close to the spirit of the season.
There’s no mythological weight behind this flick’s anti-Santa. This is more like a standard slasher horror, its baddie on a rampage of arbitrary carnage.
Glossy Hollywood automatons sleepwalk through family dynamics full of forced quirkiness, excruciating cuteness, and phony emotion. Absolutely cringeworthy.
Cheap, lazy, and limited by its slavish adherence to the found-footage trope. Bonus: features the most cynical use ever of 3D to boost cinema ticket prices.