
A Bad Moms Christmas movie review: cruel coal in the stocking
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.

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.

Save us from male artists who think they are dangerously, uniquely innovative. This stew of toxic masculinity and CGI-cartoon violence is nothing but tediously mundane.

Sweet, subversive, and absolutely hilarious, at once a snarky superhero sendup and an unironically joyful celebration of friendship and imagination.

A beach-slap to anyone with a brain. Embodies everything that is wrong with Hollywood today. It is proudly dumb. It is proudly sexist. It is proudly pointless.

Cinema as a punch in the gut and not for the squeamish, casting female desire as ravenously predatory in a way that few films have ever had the audacity to do.

Toilet humor, cars exploding for no reason, random naked boobies, and gay panic… although, weirdly, also lots of awkward, unerotic nearly naked Dax Shepard.

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.

Dementedly creepy punk body-horror grossout comedy plays like a padded-out short. But Natasha Lyonne and Chloë Sevigny have a ball as cheerful wastrels.

Kate McKinnon’s gleefully reckless physicist is brainy comic mayhem, unlike any female character we’ve seen before. And there are more reasons to cheer.