Hot Rod

Some films are so bad you almost hate to attack them. It’s like making fun of a retarded person. This one is produced by Lorne Michaels, who ought to be ashamed of himself, not only for insulting me with this drivel, but for keeping that walking corpse, “Saturday Night Live,” shuffling along, belching and farting and making messes on the carpet, for twenty years after it stopped being very funny. It was given three stars by Roger Ebert, who also ought to be ashamed of himself. It scored an inexplicable 43 at Metacritic, when they should have been exploring the possibility of negative numbers. And it stars something called Andy Samberg, who displays not a trace of talent in comedy or … oh, god, the horror, the horror! … acting. I doubt that this Samberg thing is capable of being ashamed of himself. I have learned that he is all set to become the first Internet film star, having made his rep with short videos filmed with a couple of buddies who seem to have spent their lives stoned out of their minds on Dr. Pepper and Cheetos. I once asked myself, while watching the first part of an Adam Sandler movie (I didn’t finish it), “Could comedy possibly ever get any worse than this?” This movie provides the sorry answer. I’d almost be ready to destroy the Internet entirely if it keeps spawning IQ-lowering garbage like this. We fled after the obligatory 20 minutes I’ll give any film, feeling as if we were being pursued by the brainless undead zombies from the previous movie, The Invasion. Was that laughter we heard from the people in the next car? They’re coming, they’re coming! The pod people!