A snappy, snarky, never-ever sentimental concoction of cartoon chaos meets hip heist flick. Its breezy swagger extends to the delightful animation, organic and mellow, hot and cool at the same time.
Not so much a movie as a mismatched mix of dick jokes and rampant homophobia. I’m kidding: There aren’t any actual jokes here.
I died laughing… and I’ve found a new respect for a Hollywood posse whose work I mostly haven’t enjoyed before.
I’ll help you write it, Mr. Guest. Or I’ll just stand aside in gape in awe as you work. Pretty please?
We know how it is: You’d like to go to the movies this weekend, but you dropped a pocketwatch in the shower and now you’re stuck in 1857. But you can have a multiplex-like experience in the 19th century (assuming you remembered to bring along your portable DVD player) with a collection of the right … more…
A tediously familiar collection of pointlessly crude moments drunk on their own cruelty and call it a movie. They should have titled it *Tucker Max to the Future* if they wanted folks to have an accurate idea of what they were in for…
If you wanted to explain to a mentally challenged hamster about the virgin/whore dichotomy, you could do worse than to show it *Miss March.*