Couples Retreat (review)
Maybe it’s pointless to complain about the shocking lack of elegance to an instantly forgettable bit of multiplex fluff like *Couples Retreat.* It’s like complaining about the food at Applebee’s…
Maybe it’s pointless to complain about the shocking lack of elegance to an instantly forgettable bit of multiplex fluff like *Couples Retreat.* It’s like complaining about the food at Applebee’s…
It’s rare that a film — especially a studio film — does this: goes so far in a direction you weren’t even expecting it would go in at all that the shock of it is doubled.

Kinda sorta Shaun of the Dead done up American style, so instead of cricket bats as weapons and jokes about tea, it’s shotguns as anti-zombie devices and a quest to find the last Twinkie.
I always knew Drew Barrymore could be this cool: her directorial debut is a simultaneously sweet and kickass story about one girl’s finding her bliss, a movie that works within Hollywood conventions of storytelling to handily demonstrate that just because a tale is familiar doesn’t mean it can’t be fresh and funny and edgy, too.
It’s hard to believe we haven’t seen Clive Owen in a movie like this one before.
Here’s the thing about Tucker Max: He’s a child. A toddler. A three-year-old screaming, ‘Poopie, poopie, POOPIE!” at the top of his lungs in the middle of the supermarket in the hopes of getting a reaction out of his embarrassed mother.

John Keats is the intruder in Fanny Brawne’s story, and you might be forgiven for assuming that she’s the one who became legendary, for how the film defies convention by lavishing its focus on her.
Oh, what a riveting mess!
Danged if the flick don’t feel like the Coen Brothers, if it ain’t redolent with the wonderfully odd tang of farce and feeling that they invariably bring to, at least, their lighter films.
I’d never have expected that the movie would be saved, just a little, from being complete bullshit by the presence of Aaron Eckhart.