CAPSULE MOVIE REVIEWS: 2-27-26

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My Film Critic pants are quite fetching; they are on, pressed, and ironed. I'm ready to review five new movies in this week's capsule (short) movie reviews for Friday, February 27th, 2026.

1) SCREAM 7

Before I jump into the full review, I do have to say this up front: in order to review Scream 7 in a complete way, I’m going to talk about plot points, and I’m going to mention some of the surprises.

Some people will call that spoilers. I don’t necessarily consider them spoilers because this movie telegraphs everything from about five minutes in, but I want to be fair and warn you anyway.

Now, if you don’t want anything revealed, you can stop right here and just take this with you:

Scream 7 is a terrible movie. One of the worst movies of the year. A lazy, recycled, meta-nostalgia cash grab that continues the downward spiral of a franchise that should’ve ended when Wes Craven passed away.

There. You’ve got the headline. Now I’m going to get into the messy details.

Here’s the sad part: I love this franchise. Or I did. The first four films, all directed by Wes Craven, are absolutely worth your time.

The first two are masterpieces. The third is wildly underrated and, yes, I will defend it. The fourth is good, and I’ll defend that too because I think people missed what it was doing.

Even when the series got a little sillier, Craven knew how to stage suspense, how to deliver the satire, how to balance the humor and the horror, and how to make the meta element feel like part of the story instead of a substitute for story.

But these post-Craven entries? Scream (2022), Scream VI, and now Scream 7? They’re just increasingly desperate exercises in branding. They’re movies that confuse references for wit, and cameos for ideas, and “remember this?” for actual storytelling.

And Scream 7 is the worst offender because it’s written and directed by Kevin Williamson, the guy who created the whole thing. And you would think, okay, Kevin’s back, maybe this will course-correct. Maybe it’ll feel sharp again. Maybe it’ll have bite again. Maybe it’ll mean something again.

Nope.

This thing is the laziest possible version of a Scream movie. It’s like somebody fed the first few scripts into a blender, sprinkled in some “modern commentary” about AI, and then slapped a Ghostface mask on the mess.

I’ll also say this: the behind-the-scenes story is more interesting than the movie. The whole production got retooled after the controversy with Melissa Barrera being fired and Jenna Ortega leaving. The director who was originally hired, Christopher Landon, bailed.

Neve Campbell came back after sitting out Scream VI because they finally paid her what she’s worth. They bring back Williamson, give him the keys, and the result is a film that feels like it was written in an afternoon and then rushed into production with the mission statement: “Let’s just hit the legacy character buttons and call it a day.”

So what’s the story? Sidney Prescott is back. She’s living in Pine Grove, Indiana, she’s married to Mark Evans, she runs a coffeehouse, and she’s trying to have an actual life.

She has kids now, including a teenage daughter named Tatum, which is a nice nod on paper because it’s named after her best friend Tatum Riley, who died in the first movie. And the new Ghostface targets the daughter, dragging Sidney back into the nightmare.

That’s the hook. Sidney as a mother. A new generation in the crosshairs. Great. That could be interesting.

The opening scene is actually the best stretch of the film, even though it’s not clever. It’s a horror fan and his girlfriend touring the Macher house like it’s a shrine. There’s talk about Stu Macher possibly surviving, Ghostface shows up, people get killed, and the house goes up in flames.

It’s slick enough, it’s mean enough, and for about ten minutes I thought, okay, maybe this will at least be fun.

Then the movie settles into its real identity, which is recycling.

Sidney gets taunted. There’s a staged attack. There’s an attempt at a safe room. There’s a gathering of teenagers because someone insists that “everyone needs to be together,” which is classic Scream logic and also classic idiot logic.

Gale Weathers shows up because Gale Weathers always shows up, and Courteney Cox is a pro, but even she can’t make this nonsense feel alive.

Mindy and Chad are back, and they’re basically reduced to moving parts in the machinery of the plot. Joel McHale inexplicably plays Sidney’s husband, and he is laughably miscast here. It’s like watching someone from a completely different movie wander into a slasher sequel and try to play “serious.”

And then you get to the big “modern twist,” which is the use of AI and deepfakes.

This is the part that really made me groan, because the movie wants credit for being “topical” without having anything to say.

The killers create an AI version of Stu Macher, complete with the scarred, aged face, the deepfake voice, and the visual manipulation, and the movie uses that gimmick to bring back past characters.

Laurie Metcalf. Scott Foley. David Arquette. Matthew Lillard. It’s all presented as this big “ooh, technology is scary now” angle.

But there’s no commentary. There’s no cleverness. There’s no satire. It’s just an excuse to trot out faces from the franchise and pretend that’s meaningful. It’s nostalgia as a weapon, and not in the way the movie thinks it is. It’s not subversive. It’s not smart. It’s just cheap.

And the bigger issue is that it destroys the mystery. Deepfakes are introduced as a plot device, not as an organic element of the story, and they’re used to distract the audience from how empty the screenplay is.

The movie spends so much time winking at you and waving franchise history in your face that it forgets to build tension, suspense, or even coherent character motivation.

Now let’s talk about the killer reveals, because Scream lives and dies on that final act. We all know the formula: unmasking, monologue, motive, chaos, bloodbath, finale.

In the first film, it was brilliant. It was funny, it was scary, it was shocking. In the second and third films, it still worked because the writing was sharp and Craven staged it like a madman.

Here, it’s just the same routine, except it’s been run through a photocopier so many times the ink has faded.

You can spot the culprits a mile away. Ethan Embry shows up briefly as a guy connected to a mental institution, and you immediately think, well, that guy is definitely coming back.

Anna Camp shows up as the “neighbor,” and if you’ve seen one modern slasher, you know what that means. The motives are beyond stupid and feel like they were written by someone who thinks “trauma” is a magic word that automatically creates depth.

And then, of course, the killer gives you the five-minute explanation, telling you exactly how it was done and why. It’s not clever anymore. It’s not satire anymore. It’s just a franchise obligation.

It’s like the movie is checking boxes. “Okay, now we do the monologue. Okay, now we mention the past. Okay, now we justify the murders with a psychology essay written by a ninth grader.”

Now, I will give the movie this: there are some solid kills. There’s a stage sequence with a harness that is grisly and well executed, and the practical effects are good.

The gore has some punch. The final kill, where mother and daughter absolutely unload into the killer’s skull, is satisfyingly excessive and messy and violent in a way that, for a moment, feels like the film is awake.

And Matthew Lillard, even as an AI deepfake construct, is the one element that has any spark, because Matthew Lillard always has spark. He’s having fun. He’s chewing scenery through a digital filter. He’s the only person in the movie who feels like he understands the assignment.

But those highlights do not rescue this thing.

Because what you’re left with is a movie that uses meta and nostalgia as an excuse for being lazy. It wants you to mistake recycled beats for homage.

It wants you to mistake deepfake cameos for innovation. It wants you to mistake references for jokes. And it wants you to walk out thinking you got something meaningful because you saw faces from earlier films.

No. You got a hollow sequel with no suspense, no bite, no real new idea, and no reason to exist beyond keeping the brand alive.

I’m sorry to report it, but Scream 7 is awful. It’s one-dimensional, derivative, and increasingly embarrassing. And it continues to prove my biggest belief about this franchise: the Scream series should have ended with Wes Craven.

When he died, the films should have stopped. Because without him, this whole thing has turned into exactly what the original movies were making fun of.

A really, really bad film, and the third terrible Scream movie in a row. - ⭐️1/2

2) UNDERCARD

I’ve been doing this film critic thing for a long time (40 years, in fact. You can read all about that in my book 40 Years, 40 Films), and yes, that’s a cheap plug, but I’m not above it.

After four decades of watching movies, you develop a sixth sense for what’s coming. You know when something is going to be competent but routine. You know when the sports drama is going to hit every expected beat.

And then every once in a while, a movie surprises you.

Undercard is a routine boxing drama. It is absolutely built out of familiar parts. It contains nearly every sports-movie cliché in the book. And yet, it works. It works really well. And the biggest reason it works is Wanda Sykes.

Let’s get the setup out of the way. Cheryl “No Mercy” Stewart (Wanda Sykes) is a former two-time boxing champion, now four years sober and working as a trainer at a Miami-area gym.

During her years of addiction, she abandoned her son, Keith (Bentley Green), who grew up resentful, undisciplined, and gifted in the ring. Keith’s career stalls after a devastating loss caused by his gambling-addicted trainer, Hector (Berto Colón), who functions as the very obvious villain of the piece.

So what happens? The estranged son reluctantly turns to his mother for help. The former champion gets one last shot at redemption by training the son she failed.

There’s tension. There’s anger. There are training montages. There are blowups. There’s a big climactic fight.

You have seen this movie before.

If you’ve seen Rocky, Creed, Million Dollar Baby, or any comeback sports drama ever made, you know the beats. The tropes are recycled. The emotional arcs are familiar. The bad guy is pretty one-dimensional. None of that is new.

But here’s what is surprising: how effective the movie is anyway.

Director Tamika Miller, whose background is largely in television (Quantum Leap, The Equalizer), does a very solid job here. The film feels grounded.

The Florida locations have texture. You can feel the humidity, the grit of the gym, the lived-in reality of Liberty City. The boxing sequences are competently staged and physical without being cartoonish. More importantly, Miller knows how to direct actors. And the acting in this movie is stellar.

Bentley Green does strong work as the resentful son. He’s got the right mix of arrogance and vulnerability. The scenes between him and Sykes have bite. You believe the history. You believe the damage.

But this movie belongs entirely to Wanda Sykes.

Wanda Sykes.

The same Wanda Sykes who has built a career as one of the sharpest, most outspoken stand-up comedians working today. The fearless political voice. The woman who can light up a stage with sarcasm and fury. The performer known for animated roles and broad comedy.

This is her first major dramatic lead. And it is a revelation.

There is no trace of ego in this performance. No winking. No stand-up cadence bleeding through. She is stripped down — physically, emotionally, spiritually. You barely recognize her.

The stage persona is gone. What you get instead is a woman worn down by addiction, carrying shame, fighting daily for sobriety, and desperate for one last chance to repair what she destroyed.

Her portrayal of recovery feels authentic. The quiet moments (the meetings, the internal battles, the self-doubt) are heartbreaking. The anger between her and her son is raw. The regret in her eyes in certain scenes is devastating.

She plays Cheryl not as a saint seeking forgiveness, but as someone who knows she doesn’t deserve it and is trying anyway. That’s where the movie transcends its clichés.

The script has some solid moments, especially in its handling of addiction and relapse anxiety. There are scenes with real emotional weight. But it’s Sykes who elevates everything. She brings depth and sadness and dignity to material that, in lesser hands, would feel boilerplate.

You’ll root for her. You’ll get choked up. You’ll be stunned at how fully she commits.

This is not a comedian dabbling in drama and falling flat.

This is an artist expanding her range and knocking it out of the park. It’s one of the biggest performance surprises of the year. Flat-out.

Is Undercard reinventing the sports drama? No. It’s built from well-worn pieces. The villain is obvious. The structure is predictable. The training-to-redemption arc is straight out of the handbook.

But the filmmaking is solid. The locations feel real. The emotional throughline lands. And Wanda Sykes gives one of the most unexpectedly powerful dramatic performances of the year.

After forty years of doing this, I love being surprised.

If you’re a fan of Wanda Sykes, you need to see this. If you’re curious whether she can handle serious drama, the answer is yes — emphatically yes. She proves she’s not just a brilliant stand-up. She’s a terrific actress. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️

3) DREAMS

Michel Franco makes movies that feel like they’ve been placed under glass. The camera barely moves. There’s no musical score. The emotions are flattened into long, unblinking takes. Some people find that austere, rigorous, European. I find it, more often than not, pretentious and dramatically lifeless.

Dreams is no exception.

Written and directed by Franco, this drama stars Jessica Chastain as Jennifer McCarthy, a wealthy San Francisco philanthropist who sponsors a ballet program in Mexico City, and Isaac Hernández as Fernando, a gifted Mexican ballet dancer and undocumented immigrant with ambitions of international success.

Their professional relationship becomes a clandestine sexual affair, and from there the movie sets out to explore power, privilege, immigration, class, race, sex, and the American Dream.

Those are big ideas. Important ideas. Timely ideas. They are also, in this case, poorly executed.

The first two-thirds of Dreams are astonishingly inert. We watch Fernando risk his life crossing the border to reunite with Jennifer. We watch him rehearse at the ballet.

We watch Jennifer glide through her meticulously curated San Francisco world, juggling her wealthy father (Marshall Bell), her brother (Rupert Friend), and her illicit relationship with this young immigrant she both sponsors and controls.

And we watch. And we watch. And we watch some more.

Franco’s style is cold, observational, and stripped of score. That can work; his film Sundown with Tim Roth is probably his best, and even that is carried almost entirely by Roth’s performance.

Memory, his previous collaboration with Chastain and Peter Sarsgaard, had interesting material about early dementia, but again leaned heavily on its actors to supply depth that the script didn’t always provide.

Here, the characters aren’t really characters. They’re symbols. Pawns moved around a board to illustrate class disparity and power imbalance. Jennifer is Privileged White America. Fernando is The Immigrant Dreamer. Their sex life is Political Allegory.

Jessica Chastain, as always, is compelling. She can’t help it. Even when the material is thin, she brings intelligence and presence. But for much of the film, she’s reduced to walking through lavish spaces in an endless parade of costume changes (seriously, there are dozens) while we’re repeatedly shown how rich and insulated she is.

I found myself distracted not by the drama but by counting wardrobe swaps because nothing else was happening.

Isaac Hernández, an actual professional ballet dancer, is perfectly cast physically. He dances beautifully. Acting-wise, he’s serviceable. He gets angry. He has sex. He yearns. But the screenplay doesn’t give him much interior life beyond “ambitious undocumented artist.”

The sexual scenes are explicit in dialogue and occasionally in staging, but they’re not erotic. They’re functional. They exist to underline the imbalance—she is older, wealthier, emotionally armored; he is dependent, hopeful, volatile. We’ve seen this dynamic before.

The older, powerful white woman revitalized by an affair with a younger man from a marginalized background. It’s not new, and Franco doesn’t add anything fresh.

There are repeated, obvious visual contrasts between Jennifer’s world and Fernando’s. She doesn’t speak Spanish and hasn’t bothered to learn it. He can’t fully integrate into her rarefied social circle. The class divide is hammered home scene after scene after scene. Subtlety is not on the menu.

Then, in the final 20 minutes, the movie jolts awake.

Suddenly, the power dynamic flips. Fernando, frustrated and desperate, holds Jennifer captive in her own home. What follows is a tense, uncomfortable series of confrontations: sexual, violent, psychologically charged.

The performances sharpen. Chastain, no longer gliding through charity galas, gets to dig into fear, fury, and something resembling complexity. There are moments that are genuinely unsettling.

For a brief stretch, Dreams becomes interesting.

But even here, Franco can’t resist turning everything into blunt allegory. The captivity becomes a metaphor for America’s treatment of immigrants. The reversal of control is symbolic. The violence is symbolic. The humiliation is symbolic. It’s all so stripped down to political messaging that it stops feeling human.

The film ends on a dark, chilly note with a final image of Chastain that has some bite. There is power in that closing moment. But it takes a very long time to get to something resembling dramatic urgency, and by then the damage is done.

There are also odd, sloppily handled sequences early on that may or may not be dream scenes. The film is called Dreams, after all. There’s a sexually explicit kitchen encounter that feels surreal, perhaps imagined.

But Franco doesn’t establish a clear stylistic language for what is real and what isn’t. It doesn’t feel purposeful; it feels vague.

Thematically, yes, this is timely. Immigration, ICE, privilege, liberal philanthropy as a control mechanism, the corruption of power, the destruction of dreams—these are relevant subjects. But relevance is not depth.

Franco’s movies often mistake severity for insight. He thinks he’s saying something profound about class and politics when he’s often just restating familiar arguments in a more austere visual package.

The first 90 minutes are aimless and repetitive. The final 20 minutes are intense but heavy-handed. The characters function as allegories rather than people. There is not a single moment that feels genuinely sensual, spontaneous, or lived-in.

Jessica Chastain is good. She always is. Marshall Bell is solid in limited screen time. Rupert Friend barely registers. Hernández does what’s asked of him.

But Dreams ultimately feels like a movie that believes it’s far more important than it actually is. It’s politically obvious, emotionally cold, and dramatically undernourished.

By the time it finally wakes up, it’s too late.

I can’t recommend it. - ⭐️⭐️

4) IDIOTKA

Idiotka (which literally translates to “female idiot”) is the feature debut of writer/director Nastasya Popov, and from the first frame, it feels like it crawled out of a 2003 Sundance time capsule in the best possible way.

If you told me this movie played a double feature with Igby Goes Down, Ghost World, Napoleon Dynamite, Party Monster, or even The Wackness, I’d believe you instantly. It has that scrappy, quirky, slightly chaotic early-2000s indie vibe.

The kind of movie that used to live on DVD shelves at Tower Records. The kind of movie that felt handmade, a little self-aware, a little hipster, but bursting with personality.

And you know what? I had a really good time with it.

The plot is simple and knowingly so. Margarita Levlansky (Anna Baryshnikov) is an aspiring fashion designer living in the “Russian part” of West Hollywood with her loud, opinionated, perpetually scuffling immigrant family.

They’re five months behind on rent. Her father’s medical career collapsed in scandal. Grandma Gita would happily sell the family secrets for a close-up. Margarita herself survives by sewing her own wildly eccentric designs and slapping fake designer labels on them to sell online.

Desperate for money and dignity, she enters a reality TV fashion competition called Slay, Serve, Survive, which is basically a Project Runway-style circus with an added dose of exploitation.

A slick producer named Nicol (Camila Mendes) realizes that Margarita’s chaotic Russian immigrant family is ratings gold and begins pushing her to lean into the struggle for the cameras.

From there, it becomes a satire about immigrant hustle, the American Dream, and the grotesque machinery of reality television.

Now, is this brand-new territory? Not remotely.

We’ve seen culture-clash comedies. We’ve seen reality-TV satire. We’ve seen stories about young creatives trying to claw their way into brutal industries. We’ve seen the immigrant-family dynamic played for both laughs and pathos many, many times before.

But what Idiotka does have is energy. And personality. And an ensemble that understands exactly what movie they’re in.

Once the film leans hard into the reality show setting, it really clicks. The satire of Slay, Serve, Survive works. It feels authentic. It understands the language of reality TV, you know, the manufactured drama, the exploitation of trauma, the way producers weaponize backstories. If you’ve ever watched those shows, the jokes land.

There’s also a really fun exploration of the Russian enclave in West Hollywood (something I didn’t even know existed in that particular way), and the family scenes are genuinely funny.

Galina Jovovich as the camera-loving grandmother is a blast. Mark Ivanir, as the disgraced father, is perpetually exasperated. Benito Skinner, Owen Thiele, Julia Fox, Saweetie — the supporting cast pops in and out with strong comedic beats. It’s a very game ensemble.

But let’s be clear: this movie belongs to Anna Baryshnikov.

Yes, she’s Mikhail Baryshnikov’s daughter. Yes, she’s been a scene-stealer for years. She was terrific in Manchester by the Sea. She popped in Love Lies Bleeding. She’s done strong television work like Dickinson, Superior Donuts (which Chicago folks will remember fondly).

She’s always been that actor you notice immediately. This is her first real lead role. And she knocks it out of the park.

She carries the movie. Completely. She handles the tonal shifts (the broad comedy, the awkward humiliation, the flashes of vulnerability) with total command. She’s funny. She’s sharp. She has presence. She anchors the chaos without flattening it.

It’s one thing to steal scenes. It’s another thing to sustain 90 minutes as the emotional and comedic center. She proves here that she can do it.

The movie itself? It’s a little too quirky for its own good at times. You can feel the early-2000s indie influences pretty heavily. It’s derivative in spots. It leans on fashion-world in-jokes and reality-TV awareness that might not land for everyone. It’s not breaking new ground.

But it’s lively. It’s funny. It doesn’t overstay its welcome. It’s under 90 minutes long and moves quickly. And when it was over, my first thought wasn’t about the satire or the fashion jokes — it was, “I cannot wait to see what Anna Baryshnikov does next.”

That’s a good sign.

Idiotka isn’t going to change the world. It’s a scrappy little indie comedy with familiar themes and a hipster throwback vibe.

But it’s entertaining, it has some big laughs, and it showcases a lead performance that absolutely demands attention.

Recommended... primarily for Baryshnikov, who proves she’s more than ready to headline more of her own movies. - ⭐️⭐️⭐️

5) K-POPS!

I have to be honest right up front: I’m not entirely convinced that K-Pops! would be getting a theatrical release if it weren’t for the absolutely nuclear, culture-shaking success of K-Pop Demon Hunters.

That animated juggernaut became a phenomenon, won awards, made a fortune, had a monster soundtrack, and basically turned “K-pop” into box office rocket fuel. Right now, if you slap “K-pop” on a lunchbox, it’ll sell. If you slap it on a movie poster, theaters are going to pay attention.

So here we are.

K-Pops!, the directorial debut of Grammy-winning musician Anderson .Paak, which premiered at TIFF in 2024, is now hitting exclusively at AMC theaters. And I cannot shake the feeling that in any other climate, this would have quietly drifted to VOD or landed on a streaming platform with very little fanfare. But K-pop is massive right now. The studios know it. The theaters know it. So it’s getting the big-screen treatment.

Now, the premise: .Paak plays BJ, a washed-up, stubbornly self-deluded drummer in Los Angeles who still believes stardom is just around the corner, even though he’s banging away in alleyway bars.

Through a friend, he lands a gig in Seoul as a drummer for the house band on “Wildcard,” a high-stakes televised K-pop competition show. Once there, he discovers that one of the young contestants, Tae Young, is actually the 12-year-old son he never knew he had from a long-ago relationship with Yeji (Jee Young Han). Tae Young is played by Soul Rasheed (.Paak’s real-life son), which adds a layer of authenticity.

Initially, BJ sees his son’s rising fame as a potential springboard for his own long-delayed comeback. He inserts himself into the kid’s creative process, mentoring him, introducing him to classic R&B influences, like Jackson 5, Earth, Wind & Fire, all the stuff that clearly shaped .Paak’s own sound.

But over time, the conflict becomes obvious: does he keep chasing personal fame, or does he grow up and actually become a father?

If you’ve seen a movie before, you know the answer. And that’s really the issue here.

There is absolutely nothing new in K-Pops!. Not one plot turn. Not one character beat. Not one thematic revelation. The selfish musician who learns that family matters more than fame? Been there. The long-lost child who softens a flawed man’s heart? Done that.

The estranged parents reconnecting for the good of the kid? We’ve seen it a thousand times. The big televised competition providing a ticking clock and emotional stakes? Standard issue.

It’s cliché after cliché after cliché.

Now, I don’t want to be unfair. Because the movie is sincere. Deeply sincere. You can feel that this is personal to Anderson .Paak. It’s loosely inspired by his own life, and casting his real son adds genuine chemistry to the father-son dynamic.

There are moments, some quiet, small moments, that work. You can see the affection. You can see the pride. That part isn’t faked.

But sincerity alone doesn’t make a movie good.

The direction is clunky. This is a directorial debut, and it shows. Scenes don’t always flow naturally. Emotional beats are telegraphed a mile away. The acting is wildly inconsistent—some performers are solid, others feel like they wandered in from a Disney Channel rehearsal. The storytelling is sloppy in places, and the pacing drags whenever the music isn’t front and center.

Speaking of the music... that’s where the film comes alive.

There are genuinely fun musical sequences. .Paak is a terrific musician. His love for old-school R&B bleeds into the film in a way that feels authentic and joyful. You can hear the Jackson 5 influence. You can feel Earth, Wind & Fire in the DNA.

At the same time, the movie clearly respects and embraces K-pop as a genre—its polish, its choreography, its spectacle. There are some really entertaining numbers and a few clever cultural jokes that will absolutely land if you’re plugged into that world.

And then there are the cameos.

Because Anderson .Paak is a big deal in the music industry, he called in favors. I won’t spoil them, but there are some genuinely cool surprise appearances, some big names popping up for quick, fun moments.

Those are a blast. You can tell everybody’s having a good time. Yvette Nicole Brown, who I will watch in literally anything, is reliably entertaining and brings some needed comic timing.

But again: fun moments do not equal a good movie.

From the opening scenes, you know exactly where this story is headed. There is no tension about the outcome. The emotional arc is pre-packaged. The lessons are spelled out. It’s predictable in a way that borders on mechanical.

And here’s the thing: I can’t knock the film for being cynical. It’s not. It was clearly made with love. It has heart. It wants to tell a meaningful story about fatherhood, redemption, and cultural identity. That’s admirable. Truly.

It’s just that the story it’s telling has been told better, sharper, and with more originality many times before.

So would I recommend it?

If your kids are obsessed with K-pop, they might get a kick out of it. If you’re a big Anderson .Paak fan, you’ll probably enjoy seeing him flex creatively in a different arena. If you love spotting celebrity cameos, you’ll have fun.

But as a movie—just judged on storytelling, craft, originality—it’s not very good. It’s flawed. It’s uneven. It’s overly familiar. It feels like something that probably should have gone straight to streaming.

It’s well-intentioned. It has a nice heart. The music is fun. The sincerity is real.

But there’s nothing here you haven’t seen a thousand times before. - ⭐️⭐️

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