absolute fuckshitters and marginal shitfuckers alike recognize this species of barely cogent comedy slurry as more weak product spattering a rotten trough, solely to choke chuckles down amidst creamy cameo close-ups. a movie so annoying and weightlessly glib I said to myself “I wonder when Ryan Reynolds is showing up” and for my sins of hubris the gods themselves delivered not homeric but fundamentally homer simpson irony upon me, the kind of brain death sloth malady that effects the mad, the alcohol poisoned, and the soulless charlie-addled nostrils of innumerable film executives who look at the cash cow cape crash cumshots and practically load their own shorts with weak spurts of watery financial hope. a bastardized hybrid of the kind of sophmoric deadpoolian hollow humor, the richieian title card noveau-niche, and the unsensational soporific of post-product non-comedy “lines that sound like zingers but don’t actually mean anything/references which seem like knockoff tarantino dialogue but lack the depth and width and subversion of reference” and it all comes together as nothing. absolutely nothing. 

the lights in your brain go off, the chairs go up. you have imbibed more of Glorious, Empty Product™️. it has whizzed slickly past your eyes and emptily through your ears, leaving no trace, no residue. there was no art in this, nothing but the spectre of style, a haunted house of grizzled macho line delivery, but like most haunted houses, it’s nothing but empty rooms stuffed with cobwebs and death. 

it’s not as bad as Gray Man, but it falls into the same species of empty, stupid blockbuster made of cliches, it just borrows from a different brackish groundwater of tropes. some people will defend it as something to put on and half-watch, a kind of artless noise that you don’t have to focus on. but not me, motherfucker! I watch movies to watch movies. fuck yourself! fuck your self! culture shock, fuck yourself, culture shock…