
Hotel Transylvania 2 movie review: check out and never return
The barrage of nonstop sitcom idiocy is nigh on unendurable. A father plotting against his daughter as touching and uplifting? Way worse.

The barrage of nonstop sitcom idiocy is nigh on unendurable. A father plotting against his daughter as touching and uplifting? Way worse.

An embarrassingly empty pastiche of numerous beloved action blockbusters, all frenetic action and soulless mishmashes of fantasy imagery.

It’s one joke dragged out for 90 minutes, and while it’s not entirely unamusing, the comedy feels mired in the same stoner fog as its slacker protagonist.

Charming and funny, a wonderfully sweet and silly mashup of spy stuff and high-school comedies, like if John Hughes made a James Bond movie.

All homophobic, xenophobic, scatological grossout, with some rape and pedophilia “jokes” for flavor. How did this happen?

A breath of half-nasty, half-nice fresh air, set somewhere near the intersection between a parody of a romantic comedy and a straight-up example of one.

Subjuvenile and offensive, sentimental and ridiculous. Every attempt at a joke falls flat. Every talent here is wasted. Save yourself.

Want to debunk the myth and the mystery of the manic pixie dream girl? There’s a wrong way to do that… and an oh-so marvelously right way.

Guy Ritchie’s spy-themed GQ fashion shoot. Pure popcorn nonsense, sleek and chic and vaguely funny, but instantly forgettable.
Adam Sandler imagines himself as the savior of the planet. And then it gets even more puffed up with arrogance and all manner of masturbatory fantasy.