Wednesday, 30 November 2016

Bad Santa 2 - The scoop and digest

Known for the admirable remake of Freaky Friday and Mean Girls, Mark Waters hopes to justify why 13 years later, Terry Zwigoff's particularly great anti-Christmas comedy needed a sequel.

Billy Bob Thornton - Willie
Tony Cox - Marcus
Kathy Bates - Sunny
Christina Hendricks - Diana
Brett Kelly - Thurman aka The Kid

I'll be as brief as possible.

Following a failed suicide attempt, Willie meets with Marcus who informs he was released from prison because of 'overcrowding'.

We assume Lois is still inside and who knows what happened to Mrs Santa?

Marcus persuades a reluctant Willie to join him in Chicago to heist a charity store whose office safe apparently holds millions.

To gain inside information, Willie and Marcus volunteer as Santa and Elf respectively and much to the horror of Willie, bumps into dear old mother Sunny, who also wants a slice of the action.

Thurman (now 21), hooks up with Willie at mum's house.

For the record, Sunny frequently refers to offspring as 'shit stick', because ever since birth - he tried to fuck everything.

Okay then.

All concerned go through the unpleasant motions until Willie cracks the safe and Marcus double crosses partner in crime.

Sunny secures the loot and before making her escape, shoots and runs over Marcus.

She unsuccessfully blends in at Santacon and blasts interfering son.

Protecting Willie, Thurman is also shot (in the ass), and the police conveniently show up.

Going straight, Willie fills Thurman's stocking with gifts and teabags a helpless Marcus in hospital.


And not in a good way.

Boring, mechanical, predictable, tasteless, misogynistic and repulsive?

One of the worst comedy follow ups ever?

Guilty, on all counts.

Loathsome piece of rat shit is rightly condemned to the fires of hell.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

Oh, and FUCK!

Yeah, that's all we largely hear and there's nothing remotely funny.

Thornton and Bates wear embarrassed faces, while Cox drops a barrage of f-bombs at every given opportunity.

Brett Kelly is now unspeakably bad and Hendricks' only meaningful contribution is shagging Willie.

Unlike its predecessor, the significance of Chopin's seminal masterpiece Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 is now redundant.

I would ask nearest toilet to flush this turd, but I'm not that much of a bastard.

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