Oh, look. Another Garry Marshall ensemble comedy about a holiday that typically (and understandably) doesn’t have movies made about it in which actors of varying degrees of fame are thrown into a Vitamix along with a screenplay written by a robot, pureed until reaching the consistency of chunky vomit, and lit like a sitcom.
Despite the fact that I am a fan of the film’s female leads (why couldn’t Jennifer, Kate, and Julia have teamed up for something better?), I can’t think of a worse gift for your mother than a ticket to this movie—except maybe a blood-soaked card that says, “I hate you, I have hated you since I slithered out of your womb, and I will keep hating you until we’ve both turned to dust.”
