You know you’re in trouble when a romantic comedy opens with a character explaining to a video camera that they intend to make a documentary. It’s such a hackneyed device that its presence almost seems like a joke; a cheeky acknowledgement that what you’re about to watch is a Frankenstein’s monster-movie, assembled from the offcuts of every paint-by-numbers rom-com you’ve ever seen. Such is the case with The Wilde Wedding, a new remarriage comedy written and directed by Damien Harris.
The bleating documentarian is Mackenzie (Grace Van Patten), the teenage granddaughter of Eve Wilde (Glenn Close), a retired film star, who’s about to tie the knot for the fourth time at her plush, upstate New York home. Her latest suitor is Harold Alcott (Patrick Stewart in a catastrophic wig), a popular English novelist. The celebrants include the friends and families of both parties, from the children and grandchildren to the first cousins once-removed, and everyone’s brought their exes – most notably Eve’s first husband, the precociously-named stage actor, Laurence Darling (John Malkovich).
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Surprising absolutely nobody, The Emoji Movie is an insulting travesty without a shred of wit, intelligence or worth; a shameless, unfunny slab of advertising that exists entirely to slobber all over the shiny corporate cock whose limp spurts of digitised ejaculate droop from the movie’s saccharine façade like the tears of all those parents who were dumb enough to buy tickets for their children to see it.
Having said that, it did surprise someone: Dan Hart, my very own colleague here, who insisted live on air that The Emoji Movie would secure a Tomatometer score of over 50%, and even bet ten pounds of Her Majesty’s finest sterling on the matter. I can’t get back the 90 minutes I spent watching this appalling aberration, but at least I’m up ten quid.
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You’d need all ten fingers and probably six claws to count the ways in which Logan shouldn’t work. For one thing, it’s not an X-Men movie. There aren’t any cute nods towards the broader continuity because everyone has been mundanely written out of it. Hugh Jackman’s Wolverine and Patrick Stewart’s Professor X are all that’s left, but not in any form you’d recognise. Logan’s chauffeuring twenty-somethings to bachelorette parties in a limo he drinks himself to sleep in. The only time we see him smile is when one of the looser party-girls flashes her tits at him, and while I assume she doesn’t realize he’s over a hundred years old at this point, he’s starting to look it. He’s let his signature mutton chops meet in the middle, and his claws don’t extend properly. He’s not committed to saving the world anymore because, in 2029, there doesn’t seem to be much of it left to save. But he is committed to playing caregiver to his mentor, Charles, whose decaying super-brain makes time stop and the earth rumble whenever he gets a headache.
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