Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We are gathered here today to commit the soul of Mr.Right to the ground, where it belongs.
I would venture to describe this particular failure as Natural Born Killers meets Girl, Interrupted meets When Harry Met Sally. Martha (Anna Kendrick) is on the rebound – hard – when she meets Mr. Right (Sam Rockwell). She proceeds to fall madly in love with him despite a few little red flags, namely 1) he throws knives at her head 2) he won’t tell her his name 3) is that a clown nose in his pocket? 4) he’s always joking about killing people 5) oh right he actually is a serial killer. And it turns out he’s the catch in the relationship! Martha goes full-blown manic and makes such disastrously, impossibly bad decisions that you wish you had a knife or two to throw at her yourself.
The most infuriating thing about this movie is that you’ll see small glimmers of what it could have been. Potential! It has some, particularly the Sam Rockwell bits. But some little toot who flatters himself that he’s a writer (Max Landis) has instead jizzed laziness and banality all over it. You know what, Max Landis? There is a line between “quirky” and “makes no sense” and you crossed it so long ago you’re now in “trying so hard it hurts” territory. I’m no fan of Anna Kendrick’s but I actually felt sorry for her; she’s basically forced to spend the second half of the film acting like she was rode hard and put away wet.
So that’s why we’re mourning, folks. I’m an Asshole. I can sit here and rip movies apart all day long and still have energy leftover for TV, radio DJs, and my in-laws. But this movie didn’t have to be bad. But with writing that makes me want to bash my head on my desk until reconstruction is a medical necessity, it’s hard not to call it the bloated, farting corpse that it is. If I was the mortician, maybe this stiff could have been gussied up. I do have some ideas, called reason, logic, and funny jokes, but that’s just be brain-storming off the top of my pretty little head. Oh, and a lot less Anna Kendrick trying so hard to be adorable it’s like nails on a chalkboard. Weird that the director didn’t think of those things himself though, right? Isn’t that kind of your job, Paco Cabezas? Yeah, that’s right, I’m calling people out. There’s no excuse to waste a possibly entertaining premise and turn it into a puddle of suck. Sam Rockwell deserves better, and frankly, so do I.