To borrow a phrase from one of the movie's many, many awful men, Spielberg here sacrifices a "more prudent" film in favor of a more palpably urgent one. It's a trade-off that's going to age this film poorly in a heartbeat, or a four-year term, but god forbid the last great Hollywood classicist continue trying to craft national-cultural signposts. He and he alone can get away with evidently doing this in his sleep.
In the land of the unending fan service, even the one-eyelid man is king. Normalizing The Room seems as ill-advised as normalizing a certain high profile public office holder, but this is also the most consistently funny mainstream movie I've seen in a long time. (OK, since Girls Trip.) And I say that as someone whose skin crawls at the idea of a fictionalized making of The Room including, in its cast, all three hosts of the smug "How Did This Get Made?" podcast. Low-hanging fruit, and it's a happy miracle that Franco has finally refrained from aiming stupidly high.