Before the horrible opening sequence even ended I was hoping for an atomic detonation to wipe out the entire plastic, bullshit town, and hopefully take out the filmmakers as bonus. The tone, the vapidity, the falseness, the obviousness, and the assault on intelligence did not portend pleasant experiences.
There is always a possibility that it was a setup, and that it might flip the script and become recognizable as tethered to the real world. Not the first scene, not the second, and her annoying voice-over continued its unfunny, unnecessary narration.
I imagined that Bad Moms was the type of material Guantanamo might play for captured Taliban, to break them. How much of this could I stomach? Smartly, I kept pausing its onslaught in order to articulate my disgust.
This was the strategy that pulled me through Cloud Atlas as well.
And so we continue…
Bad Moms is like a Perfect Storm of terrible music, idiotic characters, and shallowness. It seems hard to avoid the realization that vapid, stupid movies are created by vapid, stupid humans. Guilty Hollywood people, and I’m sure they were paid handsomely to defecate on the public and damage minds.
There is a supermarket sequence with lots of slow motion and obvious, predictable bad-girl gags. In keeping with the tone, it’s written by committee and doesn’t work on any level, despite super slow motion, a recent pop song, and outlandish drunkenness.
It did remind me, however, to tell you people about GO! It also has a supermarket scene, a brilliant one on ecstasy. Superior in every single way, by every measure, and every scene, Go! is a timeless classic written with intelligence, that magical ingredient that was never a consideration on Bad Moms. If you take nothing else away from this review, watch GO! instead.
Bad Moms never improves, although things happen. The same one-dimensional characters and tired slapstick gags roll through the motions like a slowed-down train wreck. That it exists at all and was a hit of sorts reminded me of Bill Hicks’ zinger: “Boy is my thumb not on the pulse of America.”
Around the time of the makeover and slow motion glam walking the migraine will kick in. Expect another lame series of dating miscue gags, ones that belong on amateur Youtube channels rather than forty feet tall. I also considered if Stephen King’s Misery might have been funnier.
But the idea was to pander for those chick dollars. White chicks, so put upon, the hardest lives of all. In their McPalaces, money no object, that grueling slog to drive their offspring to school in a gas-guzzling SUV can utterly destroy some souls. I guess without real struggles these Hollywoodized joke struggles can stand in and convince some, and take their money. It’s also so difficult for a hot actress to “get laid,” you know. The drama of being a hot mom. How will she climb that hurdle?
This extended sitcom culminates in a battle for the presidency of the PTA, no joke. The writing is borderline criminal, and one may wonder if the intent was ironic. Dressed up in obvious platitudes about the work of motherhood, did the writers seek to undermine their own empowerment shtick with blatant artifice?
Part of me wishes that we would have more mercy on those Taliban prisoners of war in Guantanamo Bay and respect their Human Rights and dignity. Don’t show them this film, please. Write your Congressman.