Co-starring with the walking human implosion that is Miley Cyrus, Demi Moore phones in occasionally as Worst Mom Since Old Lady Bates. You'd think that starring opposite a braindead narcissistic womanchild with the emotional range of a jizzrag and the personality of a dog fart would make it easy for a veteran actress with ~30 years of experience to shine like a Vatican toilet, but nooo. On the other hand, there are beer commercials with better story arcs than this movie, so it's not like they had all that much to work with.
Dear Diary, have this condom wrapper. That's what you eat right? Hello?
There are two equally awful subplots in the movie, one creepily and confusingly mirroring the mother-daughter sexcapade parallels at every turn, the other following the slow, agonizing shit-trickle of Lola's boyfriend's band down into the local cartoonishly fake 'cute safe indie rock/boyband pretending to play instruments' scene. The name of the band is No Shampoo, by the way. No Shampoo. Just drink that in for a second. N-O S-H-A-M-P-O-O. That is their actual name, in the final cut of the movie released to the public, not a joke we wrote to make fun of them.
Realizing this of course inevitably causes his dad go insane with rage, as anyone would:
"DAD NO, I WAS GOING TO DO THAT FOR OUR 'FUCK YOU DAD MEDLEY' FINALE - FUCK YOU DAD! - Wait that's pretty good actually, I think I can use that..."
No Shampoo's story is pretty much the classic American rock band success story: some dickhead teenagers who also just happen to be the hunkiest and most popular guys in school hang out and play unlistenably generic and supposedly panty-melting barf ballads on the instruments their rich and equally stupid parents bought them, and for some reason this leads to them being invited to headline at a major downtown Chicago venue every night of the week, which of course in turn leads to fat juicy record deals, true love fersher, and Serious, Heartfelt Dad Moments.
The movie ends in a raw, beautiful climax when George Pouty Lips Sr. comes down to the rock house to personally murder his stupid asshole son for being a ridiculous little bitch and take back the beloved deep dish v-neck passed down in his family for generations, only to find that his son's music is so good it ruins his meaningless job-filled life and his head explodes all over everyone, which is upsetting at first until they realize that it's actually cake that's free for everyone to enjoy instead of his annihilated brain matter and have a good hearty belly chuckle about it while Satan personally opens a rift in the earth and drags Miley Cyrus to hell, and they all live happily ever after!
|Music / Sound||-7|
Anton Chekhov's famous gun rule is not being followed by some lazy screen writers for the Marvel Cinematic Universe.
Something Awful reviews the latest indie sensation that everyone says is good so of course it is.
Something Awful reviews the absolute worst movies out there. We focus mostly on horror and science fiction, because all writers here on Something Awful are huge nerds.