Kevin Smith loves his daughter. That much, if nothing else, is clear from watching the starring vehicle he’s built for her. Harley Quinn Smith, 17, had one scene in his last movie, Tusk, playing a loopy Canadian convenience-store employee named Colleen. Her costar: Johnny Depp’s 17-year-old daughter, Lily-Rose Depp, who also played a loopy Canadian convenience-store employee named Colleen. The Colleens are back in Yoga Hosers, which expands their miniature buddy comedy to feature length, and whenever the two actresses are bantering—they don’t do much else, really—it’s possible to see why the writer-director thought their chemistry would be enough to carry a movie. His paternal pride illuminates every scene. And movies have been carried by less. 
 
 
 
 Trouble is, Yoga Hosers isn’t really a movie. It’s a quarter-to-1:00 a.m. SNL sketch, nightmarishly distended into oblivion. It’s a corny Canuck joke, told for 88 surreally unfunny minutes. It has a target demographic of one: He wears hockey jerseys and, again, loves his daughter. “I don’t give a shit about the audience anymore,” Smith announced at this year’s Sundance Film Festival, by way of introducing the thing. Maybe it’s dirty pool to bludgeon an artist with his own self-deprecation, or just foolish to believe that a filmmaker who’s lived and died on feedback could lose interest in it. (This is a guy, remember, who routinely apologizes for his own movies and rehashes old successes.) Yoga Hosers, however, makes it easy to take Smith at his word. No one who gives any shits about their audience would subject them to something so insultingly slapdash. 
 
 The film’s chief asset, maybe its only one, is its scion starlets. A little of their high-energy space-cadet routine goes a long way, but at least the two seem like real friends, even if the characters they’re playing rarely seem like real teenagers. The Colleens are a 46-year-old man’s idea of how adolescents talk and act: They call things “basic,” bury their noses in cell phones (expect lots of onscreen text and Instagram references), and generally behave like a parody of a parody of kids today. When not manning the front counter of their Winnipeg one stop shop Eh-2-Zed, they’re taking yoga classes with a Zen doofus (Justin Long) or jamming in the back room with a snarky older musician (Adam Brody). Smith’s faith in the pair is endearing. He just seems to have put little effort into anything other than showcasing their rapport. (Used to be that the director’s indifference extended chiefly to how he framed his shots.) 
 
 “I’m not even supposed to be here today,” one of the Colleens chirps, in a callback for the faithful. But this is no distaff Clerks, no return to the smutty conversational comedy of Smith’s youth—and not just because, in his desire to fashion his own anthem for a 17-year-old girl, the filmmaker has pulled his mind and mouth out of the gutter. Yoga Hosers has the strange problem of possessing both too much and too little plot. Half the running time elapses before Johnny Depp shows up, nearly unrecognizable under prosthetics and a bad Quebecois accent, to reprise the role of his Tusk detective. In that film, Depp’s sketch-comedy mugging ground the story to a halt. In this one, he seems to have been brought in to finally kick it into motion. The conspiracy our heroines half-heartedly unearth involves (wait for it) an army of Nazi bratwursts, all played by none other than the director himself. This allows Smith to chase his Human Centipede riff with a Gremlins clone—and to work in some of the year’s worst special effects. (The Shit Monster of Dogma looks like a Weta creation by comparison.) 
 
 There was honestly more movie to Tusk, a limp horror-comedy that began as a podcast freestyle and was voted into existence by listeners. (Would they have tweeted differently if they knew a whole dopey trilogy was the true cost of #WalrusYes?) What we mainly get from Yoga Hosers, the second of Smith’s three planned trips to the Great White North, is one tired Canadian gag after another. Did you know that they love hockey and maple syrup? And that they have funny accents? (“Sooree boot that,” goes the Colleens’ signature catchphrase, repeated ad nauseam, as though it were the height of hilarity.) Smith’s wit and senses seems to have escaped him, but his gooey heart is clearly in the right place; if Yoga Hosers has any redeeming quality, it’s the plain parental affection that inspired its conception. Why he thought anyone else needed to see this glorified family favor is a true mystery. ||||| 'Yoga Hosers': Sundance Review 
 
 The teen daughters of Kevin Smith and Johnny Depp battle an army of foot-tall Nazis made of sausage. 
 
 Some fathers build their kids treehouses. Some daddies buy a pony for their little princess. Kevin Smith writes and directs a movie for his daughter to star in. And writes a part for her lifelong best friend. And, since that friend is Johnny Depp's daughter, he casts Depp as well — hell, let's get both the moms onscreen too, and give the kids some musical numbers to show off their inner rock star. In between the for-the-family fun, Smith's Yoga Hosers is something vaguely resembling a movie, one in which two girls who just want to go to a party with twelfth-graders wind up battling an army of knee-high Nazis made of sausage. Who love to kill strangers by crawling into men's rectums. Even fans who've stuck with Smith for two decades may draw the line at this outing, which offers ingredients just as inexplicable as those in Tusk (it's a sort of spinoff of that film) without the captivating weirdness that sometimes brought that midnighter to life. Commercial prospects are slim, unless it somehow strikes a chord with young girls. It is, after all, what Smith described in his introduction as "the movie I would have wanted to see back when I was a twelve year-old girl." 
 
 Harley Quinn Smith and Lily-Rose Depp play The Colleens, who reluctantly work behind the counter at the convenience store owned by Colleen C's dad. They're bored girls, always on their phones, who invent any excuse to put up a "temporarily closed" sign and go goof off in the back. Sound familiar? If only: After seeing what Smith comes up with to keep The Colleens occupied here, even moviegoers who once prayed he'd be able to move successfully beyond the Clerks universe may wish he'd simply rebooted the franchise with these two kids, Ghostbusters-style. 
 
 But no. After a few high-school-sucks scenes and an introduction to the strip-mall yoga studio the girls are obsessed with — run by Yogi Bayer (Justin Long), it teaches moves like "Pretentious Frog" and "Dissatisfied Customer" (and is not unfunny) — Smith slides into an action-horror plot he seems to have yanked out of the orifice his little sausage Nazis (make that "Brat-zis") so love to enter. The murderous little critters have something to do with the untold legacy of a Canadian Nazi party that almost got off the ground during WWII. If you're not following this, don't worry: There'll be a plenty-long exposition later, delivered by a Kraut scientist who communicates via impersonations of Al Pacino and Sly Stallone. 
 
 Canadian Nazi party, you say? Yes, Hosers is the densest embodiment yet of Smith's strange conviction that anything north of Niagara is good for a laugh. Shot in L.A. but set in Winnipeg, the pic offers more outrageously bad Canadian accents than a man named Gordon can shake a hockey stick at. Smith works "aboooot" and "soorry" into the script with as much frequency as "basic," the one bit of circa-2015 teen lingo he decided to adopt here. 
 
 The young leads seem to be having fun even if you aren't, but any acting careers they might go on to will not be the result of this film. Reprising his Tusk role, Johnny Depp acts as their bumbling chaperone throughout, under slightly better makeup and imitating Peter Falk a bit less than he did there. He gets a bit lost during the climax, as The Colleens have a 60s-Batman­-inspired fracas with a monster dubbed the "Goalie Golem" (don't ask). But odds are good he'll return if Moose Jaws, the sequel promised in the closing credits, ever comes to pass. 
 
 Distributor: Destro Films 
 
 Cast: Lily-Rose Depp, Harley Quinn Smith, Johnny Depp, Tony Hale, Natasha Lyonne, Justin Long, Austin Butler, Tyler Posey, Adam Brody 
 
 Director-Screenwriter: Kevin Smith 
 
 Producers: Liz Destro, Jordan Monsanto, Jennifer Schwalbach 
 
 Executive producers: Charles Bonan, Kim Leadford, Tim Nye 
 
 Director of photography: James R. Laxton 
 
 Production designer: Cabot McMullen 
 
 Costume designer: Carol Beadle 
 
 Editor: Kevin Smith 
 
 Composer: Christopher Drake 
 
 Casting director: 
 
 Venue: Sundance Film Festival (Midnight) 
 
 Sales: WME, CAA 
 
 87 minutes ||||| If it’s true, as Kevin Smith noted in his lengthy introductory remarks at Sundance, that “failure is just success training,” then he should be in the best shape of his career after “Yoga Hosers,” an imbecilic, strenuously wacky helping of see-what-sticks juvenilia that finds the director continuing the “True North Trilogy” he began with 2013’s rather more endurable “Tusk.” Crossing a high-school comedy with a small-town gremlin movie, this cobbled-together live-action cartoon supplies an endless stream of Canada jokes in service of a plot about a hostile takeover by long-dormant Manitoban Nazis who take the form of sodomy-inclined sausages. The casting of Harley Quinn Smith and Lily-Rose Depp (the daughters of Smith and Johnny Depp, reprising his “Tusk” role here) as two endlessly sarcastic, butt-kicking teenage heroines helps the time pass more bearably than it might have otherwise, but really, to shackle two lovely and promising teenage actresses to material this dreadful could be reasonably construed as an awfully expensive form of child abuse. 
 
 Those who saw “Tusk” will remember the yoga hosers of the title, both of whom share the same first name, and are helpfully referred to throughout as Colleen C. (Lily-Rose Depp) and Colleen M. (Harley Quinn Smith). When we first catch up with these surly high-school sophomores, they’re taking a break from their stultifyingly dull jobs at a Winnipeg convenience store to perform in the back with their amateur girl band, which consists of the two of them and a heavily tatted 35-year-old loser named Ichabod (Adam Brody) on drums. 
 
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 The Colleens fit a comically exaggerated stereotype of modern teenagers by remaining glued to their phones, constantly texting, tweeting and introducing the other characters in the movie via photos and hashtags that they’ve uploaded to Instagram — or, as it’s known in these Canuck parts, Insta-Can. That’s about the level of wit to which Smith’s script occasionally rises (but never falls) as it trots out an array of uninspired and repetitive Great White North gags that make one long for the comparative wit of “Canadian Bacon.” Reopening their store after a long delay, the Colleens repeatedly murmur “Sorry ‘boot that” as their customers grumpily stock up on artisanal maple syrup and hockey-themed breakfast cereals (Pucky Charms, eh?). 
 
 The plot points that eventually materialize seem to have been written down on index cards and pulled randomly out of a toque. The girls despise Tabitha (Natasha Lyonne), the irritating new squeeze of Colleen C.’s hapless dad (Tony Hale), but they’re rather fonder of Yogi Bayer (Justin Long, sporting a beard and awesomely colorful workout pants), whose studio they visit regularly to learn such cutting-edge yoga moves as “the pretentious frog.” Then they meet up with two older high-school dudes (played by Austin Butler and Tyler Posey) who turn out to be knife-wielding Satan worshippers, though they’re happily taken out of commission when they’re anally penetrated and gutted from within by the aforementioned sausage-Nazis — each of which is basically a small bratwurst with Hitler-esque features and dressed in red Canadian Mountie garb (animated via deliberately crude f/x). 
 
 Viewers who have been paying close attention (though why they would is a mystery) won’t be terribly surprised by this development, since the Colleens earlier received an extended lecture from their history teacher (Vanessa Paradis) on the area’s latent Nazi population — as illustrated through black-and-white mock-archival footage of the villainous Adrien Arcand (Haley Joel Osment) trying to start his own Third Reich by blaming unemployment on “the fault of the Canadian Jew” and proposing the launch of “Le Solution Finale.” And so the Colleens must put their yoga moves to good work and stop the Nazis and their evil present-day commandant (Ralph Garman), forcing them to team up with “Tusk’s” beret-wearing manhunter, Guy Lapointe — again energetically played by Depp, unrecognizable as ever beneath heavy makeup, mustache and facial pock marks that seem to change location at random. 
 
 Harley Quinn Smith and especially Lily-Rose Depp have sufficient spunk, spark and chemistry (and they’re charming bopping through an end-credits cover of “O Canada”) that you long to see them in a starring vehicle that doesn’t look and feel like an on-screen underwear stain. Shot and edited with the sort of willful slovenliness that presumably fits the anything-goes grab-bag effect Smith was going for, “Yoga Hosers” looks as though it was probably pretty fun to make, though only the director’s hardcore fans and SModcast listeners are likely to find that pleasure in any way infectious. Yet while it’s hard to imagine the result landing even in the vicinity of “Tusk’s” disappointing $1.9 million domestic gross, the end credits blithely warn us that Smith’s franchise will continue soon enough with “Moose Jaws.” But really, he should just give it the ‘boot. ||||| Cathal Kelly Staff Reporter 
 
 Warning: If you are diabetic, the sweetness of this story may prove dangerous. 
 
 Actor Johnny Depp recently received a letter from a 9-year-old London schoolgirl. The youngster, Beatrice Delap, made an appeal to Depp’s Pirates of the Caribbean alter-ego, Captain Jack Sparrow. 
 
 “We are a bunch of budding young pirates and we're having trouble mutinying against the teachers!” Beatrice wrote. “We'd love it if you could come and help!” 
 
 Which is more than a little cute. And it got far, far better. 
 
 While filming his latest movie in London, Depp decided to drop by, unannounced, in full costume. 
 
 An amateur video captured the mood of the visit, which might best be described as breathless. 
 
 While students trilled and teachers sighed, Depp called Beatrice up in front of the class and produced her request. 
 
 “She wrote me this letter, saying you’re a right handful,” Depp/Sparrow slurred. 
 
 Then he suggested they take over the school, eat all the candy, which in turn would cause their teeth to fall out. Hey, I’ve heard about this mutiny before. It was on the Bounty. And it ended badly. 
 
 Depp spent 15 minutes with the students. The story quickly spread across Britain and then the world. 
 
 Depp’s done this sort of good deed before. Two years ago, he turned up at the London hospital that had successfully treated one of his daughter, Lily-Rose, for kidney failure. 
 
 He reportedly spent four hours at Great Ormond Street Hospital – again, dressed as Captain Jack – reading bedtime stories to sick children. 
 
 Depp and his wife, the French actress Vanessa Paradis, also donated $1 million to the hospital as a thank you. 
 
 After his command appearance for Beatrice and her classmates, one of their teachers said the children had abandoned their mutinous ambitions. 
 
 Beatrice’s next letter, to Anthony Hopkins, begins: “We are a bunch of budding serial killers …” ||||| There we all were the other night, laughing and clapping and whooping it up at Magic Mike XXL, a movie whose plot can fit on a Post-it. Five of the exotic dancers from Steven Soderbergh’s 2012 hit, Magic Mike, make their way from Tampa to Myrtle Beach for some sort of stripper convention. It is, they promise, their last dance. But what’s great about this movie — and it is great in its ridiculous way — is how it sustains a balance of hilarity and eroticism. The nor’easters of cash are funny. The screaming and gaping and cracking up that the female clientele do in this movie are funny. So are the lengths the men will go to induce the screaming and gaping — and in one nutty sequence set at a gas-station minimart, just to win a smile. But as I sat there laughing, I realized I wasn’t only entertained. I was moved and exhilarated. Not since the days of peak Travolta and Dirty Dancing has a film so perfectly nailed something essential about movie lust: Male vulnerability is hot, particularly when the man is dancing with and therefore for a woman. It aligns the entire audience with the complex prerogatives of female desire. 
 
 I’ve never watched a movie more aware of the fact that it is not speaking explicitly to men, not even gay ones. Both the first film and the ads for the second make hay of penises. Some of the posters have stamped the word “coming” over the crotch of a backlit Channing Tatum. Sure, there are tearaway pants and pelvic thrusts galore, but this new movie isn’t thinking with a penis. It’s consciously doing something more sophisticated — well, sophisticated for something starring and made by men that’s opening on thousands of screens for July 4th weekend; a deft touch plus charm, aggression, scowling, grinning, danger, safety, and risk equals fireworks, too. Will Smith is a former king of July 4th weekend. The secret weapon of XXL (one of them) is Smith’s wife, Jada Pinkett Smith, who, as owner and emcee of her own pleasure parlor, addresses throngs of thrill-seeking women as “queens” in a way that snatches the word back from gay culture. 
 
 The terrain here is entirely below the Mason-Dixon line, and part of the whooping is for both how ludicrously and how sincerely this movie wants to get below your Mason-Dixon line, too. The way it does this feels totally new. XXL creates a world in which men want only to satisfy a specific idea of pleasure. What that idea is changes from environment to environment and from female to female. None of the big scenes takes place in a standard club environment. Instead, the road trip lands the gang at private events and people’s homes. They’re making house calls, and the intimacy of the settings compounds the fantasy, personalizes it. These men are dancing only. For. You. 
 
 Tatum’s Mike Lane urges the other guys to throw out their old stage personae — the male-dancer clichés: fireman, cop, stuff like that — and find more authentic ones. What if, in addition to baring their asses, they also bared their souls? The change is a brilliant shift in prerogative from the first movie, which was a druggy and jokey, slightly overwritten romantic comedy between Mike and a beachy but practical chick (Cody Horn); between artists and money (on either side of the camera); and among the dancers themselves. The original film also found this lusty, swampy world a little sad. In the end, Mike left it to start a custom furniture business. Three years later, he reenters, newly single, lured back by the vocation’s moan. He’s minding his business in his metalworking shop when, suddenly, the opening licks of Ginuwine’s “Pony” return from the first film. This time the movie hits hard the song’s robotized exhortation that staggers in the backbeat: “Yeah. Yeah. Oh yeah.” He’d already been tricked into partying with the old gang, who tell him they’re on their way to that convention. He says he can’t join them. But in Mike’s shop, the cosmos forces him to reconsider. That song comes on, and he proceeds, almost involuntarily, to glide and grind his way around, into, and against the tables, beams, and equipment. The moment is a little bit Flashdance, a little bit Footloose, and 100 percent for us. Tatum’s dancing by himself isn’t as technically sound as Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire. It’s dirtier and more insinuating. They danced to express themselves. Tatum dances because he knows we’re there. 
 
 Warner Bros. 
 
 Soon Mike is back with Tito (Adam Rodriguez), Tarzan (Kevin Nash), Richie (Joe Manganiello), and Ken (Matt Bomer). There’s not much to these people as individual characters — they’re openly shallow. But you like their harmony as a group. It’s explained at some point that Matthew McConaughey’s emcee character from the original has run off to Asia to start a new show with the Kid, who was played by Alex Pettyfer. The guys have found a new emcee, played by the comedian Gabriel Iglesias — another veteran of the first movie (he played the DJ) and known to the world by his nom de stand-up, Fluffy. Besides Tatum, the only person who seems even close to stardom is Bomer, who has always been prettier than he is interesting. There’s never enough happening on or behind that doll’s face of his. But the character’s spiritualistic mumbo jumbo — he says he’s doing Reiki — makes sense now as honest comedy, as opposed to mockery. When the movie settles in for a long sequence in Charleston, Bomer gets to advertise his talent in a way that makes you wonder what took so long. 
 
 The big deal about the first movie had to do with the droves of women who jammed into theaters to see something seemingly meant to please them. It was a comedy about men who take their clothes off for money. Soderbergh’s artistry bettered a script by Reid Carolin, based, in part, on Tatum’s days dancing for money. Carolin also wrote this new movie, and its narrative minimalism is more impressive. It’s a road movie, structured around three astonishing set pieces that seem designed to take in the wider world while paying homage to dudes like Homer. Each passage has to be beheld to be believed, but none is like anything I’ve seen in a Hollywood movie. 
 
 The first is at a place called Domina, the country club of Pinkett Smith’s character, Rome. She’s a former stripper, an ex of Mike’s, and the operator of an establishment whose clientele consists entirely of black women gathered to have their breath stolen by black men. Mike has come in search of a new emcee (Fluffy doesn’t quite make it to North Carolina). Rome, who calls him a ghost (maybe because he’s white, maybe because he left), wants to show him what she’s built since he split. She also, presumably, wants to show him how real men please women. And so Mike and Ken and everybody else become bystanders as the camera takes in her cabinet of wonders, one of whom turns out to be Michael Strahan. 
 
 I won’t lay out the particulars. I’ll only say that Pinkett Smith puts her steeliness to its sexiest use ever (ending a decades-long squandering) and that there was no reason to include this sequence. There’s a way it could be viewed as a self-inoculation against the whiteness of Mike’s crew and these movies, in general. But it doesn’t feel at all defensive. It speaks, instead, to the risk this movie is taking in suggesting this world is more vast, hotter, and far more lucrative than we could have imagined. 
 
 I was too knocked out to clock this scene’s duration, but it’s not short. There are about three full numbers. The lighting, in blues and reds, doesn’t obscure the variety of black and brown skin. It brings something else out in them. It invests them with meaning. The choreography is a mix of confidence, melodrama, and the kind of erotic origami found in some street dancing. And the energy keeps shifting from wild to weird to whatever Donald Glover does after the camera pans up to find him standing at the top of a staircase wearing a porkpie hat and blazer over a bare chest. All he does is sing to a recent divorcée, but you can feel the women around her — and the people around you — melting, too. It’s true that Rome and some of her men — including Stephen “tWitch” Boss, who, for the finale, becomes the group’s sixth performer — are helping these mostly white guys find their souls. But the movie comes honestly by both the search and the assistance. That sequence at Domina is ecstatic. 
 
 So if this is tourism, it feels accidental. For the men in Mike’s crew, Domina is another revelation on a trip full of them. Their blocky shtick won’t do. As fun as it was in the original movie, it felt bogus: gay-revue iconography (real Village People type of stuff) repurposed for female entertainment. It was a novelty. XXL grants the trade profundity and a kind of wisdom that begins at Domina’s and continues with Glover’s character later imparting to Ken a deep thought about what he, and by extension all men who dance, get out of the job: women’s pleasure. These aren’t gay men. But in the first movie, it was as though the men of McConaughey’s Xquisite club thought that a kind of gayness was a safe route to a straight woman’s rhapsody: to be a little draggy. The new film reframes their heterosexuality. This time, the joke with Richie is that he can’t find a woman who can handle his generous anatomical endowment. Eventually, he does, and it’s beautiful, and you get the sense that the movie is about the search for a similar suitable home. 
 
 The director Gregory Jacobs, who for years has been doing assistant-directing work for Soderbergh, makes sure that the scores of women in every room can’t believe their eyes and can’t quite catch their breath. The cinematography and camera operation are by Soderbergh (working pseudonymously as Peter Andrews), whose long, wide takes get light, rhythmic editing (also by him) so that the dancing in this movie feels pure. The filmmakers understand that the fantasy of adult entertainment, at least here, is about a connection between people. If it breaks that, the movie breaks, too. So the takes, particularly in the last passage at the convention, are spaciously filled with seemingly hundreds of women gathered around different stages while Pinkett Smith, who winds up there, too, holds court among them. They’ve got the raw dreaminess of Bob Fosse and Robert Altman. You feel the pull — and the weight — of the female fantasy, especially once the crew winds up at the Charleston mansion of some girl Tito is sort of seeing. Speaking of ghosts: That sequence is dominated by Andie MacDowell, whose natural lasciviousness while hosting a ladies’ night in one of her living rooms makes something like cable’s American Horror Story seem childishly scared of real female sexual power. What’s amazing about this passage is that there’s no dancing, just minds meeting so that libidos can as well. 
 
 There’s the women’s movie, and then there’s this. Classically speaking, the women’s movie dramatizes lives and makes the feminine funny or universal or sufficiently spiritual. In all its ways — or at its most effective — it wants to lift people up and denounce affronts (chauvinism, sexism, double standards) with pluck, tragedy, and art. Magic Mike XXL is a reverse-women’s movie. It’s imbuing maleness with feminine energy. Most of the women here used to dance, and a few now run businesses based on men dancing for women. Elizabeth Banks plays one of those characters. She runs the convention the guys are heading to; the momentary locking of eyes she shares with Pinkett Smith warrants crying “fire” in a crowded theater. But, again, you laugh, too, because you never know where this movie’s sense of sexual adventure is going next. Take the love interest for Mike. She’s a moody stripper turned photographer (Amber Heard) whose bisexuality is in a firm female phase, which the movie both subtly and overtly respects. You dread that she’ll break, but she barely bends, and Tatum’s charm doesn’t force the issue. She’s found a buddy, and that works for him. The movie seems to have really considered the appeal of male live entertainers. With women, it’s the taking of power. With men, it’s the surrender to some kind of true, exposed self. 
 
 This is turning out to be some summer for women, from Banks’s execrable but unimpeachably popular Pitch Perfect 2 and the sublime sneak-attack feminism of Mad Max: Fury Road, Spy, Inside Out, and now this. The feat of XXL is that its throngs of attention-starved, hormonally revved women always double as comments on the dusty marketplace conditions. So does all the money that just rains from the sky like confetti. This movie doesn’t put you in the mind of a woman. It puts you in her libido. At least for me, what it means to be aroused has undergone a glorious realignment. I wasn’t hard when it was over. I was wet.
– If you were planning to see Kevin Smith's Yoga Hosers this weekend, keep in mind that critics almost universally hate it. The movie has a low 22% rating at Rotten Tomatoes, though audiences are much kinder, at 63%. The movie is actually a family affair: Smith's daughter stars alongside Johnny Depp's daughter, and both sets of parents have roles. Here's what critics are saying: "I don't give a s--- about the audience anymore," Smith said at the Sundance Film Festival. His proof is this movie, writes AA Dowd at AV Club. Lily-Rose Depp and Harley Quinn Smith make it "possible to see why the writer-director thought their chemistry would be enough to carry a movie." But "Yoga Hosers isn't really a movie. … It's a corny Canuck joke, told for 88 surreally unfunny minutes." "Some of Mr. Smith's prior work made me laugh so hard that I cried; Yoga Hosers made me want to cry for different reasons," writes Glenn Kenny at the New York Times. "It all seems like something that was hatched during a particularly neuron-impaired free-association game." And Johnny Depp comes across as "more disturbingly peculiar than funny." Lily-Rose Depp "demonstrates a charismatic presence that jumps off the screen," but "the entire film has the strange feel of watching an elaborately produced home movie to be played at a holiday party rather than a movie theater," writes Katie Walsh at the Los Angeles Times. It also boasts "a clearly first-draft script, terrible editing, and continuity errors." "To shackle two lovely and promising teenage actresses to material this dreadful could be reasonably construed as an awfully expensive form of child abuse," as Justin Chang puts it at Variety. The plot, centering on "Manitoban Nazis who take the form of sodomy-inclined sausages," seems "to have been written down on index cards and pulled randomly out of a toque." "Even fans who've stuck with Smith for two decades may draw the line at this outing," writes John DeFore at the Hollywood Reporter.