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   The funniest, nastiest movie reviews anywhere.

Bad Times at the El Royale

You think a six-year-old who only knows the "orange you glad I didn't say banana" joke and repeats it 10,000 times a day has the worst sense of humor?  How about GG Allin, Bob Saget or the French, for whom mimes are the height of hilarity?  Not even close.  The undefeated, undisputed worst sense of humor champion is, without a pube of a doubt, the universe.

The universe can't get enough of people running out of gas on the way to their dream job interview.  Or having the bulk of the world's oil just happen to sit beneath the feet of the most backward-ass, fanatical fucknuts the planet has to offer.  Or watching some stupid cooze finally reach out to the one she never should've let get away only to find out that - PUNCHLINE - he's fucking dead.  For the universe, that shit is comedy gold.

That's how I know the universe is still tittering to itself about Bad Times at the El Royale, a movie that comes Icarus close to being mondo-cumstastic only to end up getting hoisted by its own scrotard.  A stellar cast, a batch of mysteriously intersecting stories populated by well-drawn characters, and production design tasty enough to eat like top-tier pussy, all of it comes crashing down Godzilla versus Tokyo style because the movie is just . . . too . . . fucking . . . long.

The universe hits director Drew "There Is No" Goddard with a haw-haw, sophomore slump the size of the Moon.  Goddard's first and only other directorial effort, The Cabin in the Woods, was an outstanding, super-meta horror-comedy that payed homage to the tropes of both genres while simultaneously blowing them sky high.  Of course, he had a little help from none other than Hollywood golden boy Joss "The Boss" Whedon on that one.  Bad Times at the El Royale proves that, left to his own devices, Goddard has as much self-control as the six-year-old from the first paragraph.

It's the mid-1970s, and the El Royale is a once-swanky motel straddling the California/Nevada state line.  It's the kind of place that used to host Sinatra but now is only good enough for Sinatra impersonators.  Mix a smidgen of murder, a dash of kidnapping, a skosh of blackmail and a pinch of the Manson Family . . . then let it all potboil for about a half-hour too long. 

And the universe laughs and laughs.  Heartless fucker.

October 19, 2018