Rough Night 
 
 We gave it a C+ 
 
 To paraphrase Mel Brooks, “Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is the second time the dead stripper in penis sunglasses falls off a Jet Ski.” Or maybe it’s just Rough Night, a raunchy, wildly off-the-rails farce from the team that more or less brought you Broad City. 
 
 Scarlett Johansson is Jess, a 30ish Senate candidate who can barely spare a minute to sit down for Seamless with her fiancé (Paul W. Downs, also a co-writer), let alone celebrate their upcoming union. Her college roommate Alice (Jillian Bell) is the one who insists on reuniting the old crew for an elaborate bachelorette weekend in Miami — including freelance radical Frankie (Ilana Glazer) and Blair (Zoë Kravitz), now a sleek corporate type — even if their paths have diverged since their dorm-room days of midnight Doritos and beer pong. (The arrival of Jess’ Australian year-abroad friend Pippa, played with cracked New Age glee by Kate McKinnon, is a cross she’ll have to bear.) 
 
 Somewhere between the cocaine, the Weenie Linguine, and the Craigslist gigolo, things somehow begin to go wrong. Director Lucia Aniello stacks her loose cannon of a script with a few truly great bits and some inspired casting — including Ty Burrell and Demi Moore as a pair of predatory, praline-colored swingers — but then never quite trusts their gifts, blowing out her Girls Just Wanna Have Hangovers conceit until it feels like the summer-movie equivalent of a fidget spinner: shiny, manic, and spiraling to nowhere. C+ ||||| “Rough Night,” a bachelorette-party-from-hell thriller comedy that’s got some push and some laughs, despite its essentially formulaic nature, is a perfect example of why Hollywood needs (many) more women filmmakers. Do we want to see more women directors who have the scalding audacity of a Kathryn Bigelow, or who can turn a tent-pole origin story like “Wonder Woman” into a cultural event the way Patty Jenkins did? Duh and duh. That said, we also need more women to direct the MOR entertainment of the week. In the case of a goofy-nasty bad-behavior farce like “Rough Night,” directed and co-written by Lucia Aniello, what’s novel isn’t so much the plot as the spin, the female gaze, the inside-the-club sensibility. That, for all the cookie-cutter elements, is what’s fresh about the movie, and why it should find a solid audience. 
 
 But first, a word on how derivative it is. In “Rough Night,” four college chums reunite for a weekend trip to Miami, where they’ve borrowed a splendid beach house to hold a bachelorette bash for Jess (Scarlett Johansson). A decade ago, they were frat-house-party hellions who could guzzle their way through a night of beer pong. But they’ve grown up — sort of. Jess, now with clipped conservative hair, is running for state senator, and she and her fiancée, Peter (Paul W. Downs), are so respectable and adult that they’re already like an old married couple, too bone-weary for sex. Frankie (Ilana Glazer), a lesbian and full-time activist, organizes protests faster than she can get people to show up for them, and Blair (Zoë Kravitz), who is Frankie’s former lover, is in the thick of a divorce and child-custody battle. Then there’s Alice (Jillian Bell), the exception who proves the rule — which is to say, she’s still every bit the needy, arrested drunk-girl narcissist she was in college. 
 
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 The four go out to a club, where they do endless shots and too much cocaine, and they’re introduced to Jess’ outside BFF, an Aussie free spirit named Pippa (Kate McKinnon of “Saturday Night Live”). Then they go back to the house, where the requisite male stripper has been put on order. A dude shows up at the door (he’s sexy, but seems a little too threatening to be a stripper), and moments later, after push quite literally comes to shove, he’s lying on the floor, a pool of blood spreading beneath him. It’s a complete accident, but he is dead. 
 
 Ninety-nine percent of the people who see “Rough Night” will have no idea that it lifts its premise, and much of its flavor, from an edgy and overlooked 1998 movie called “Very Bad Things,” which starred Christian Slater and was Peter Berg’s first film as a director. It was about a group of guys who accidentally kill a prostitute during a bachelor party in Vegas; what they do to hide the disaster is hideous but — as Berg staged it — creepily plausible, and the film, though it never caught on, had a queasy power as a foray into the dark side of the male psyche. “Rough Night” is a lighter entertainment. It’s “Very Bad Things” with the sexes reversed, but also with a harmless synthetic dollop of the “Hangover” films, a replay of the best-friend-of-the-bride jealousy drama of “Bridesmaids,” plus a touch of “Weekend at Bernie’s.” It’s all been mashed together in the comedy compactor, yet the best thing about “Rough Night” is the feisty, claws-out spontaneity of its competitive banter between “sisters” who love and hate each other. 
 
 Lucia Aniello and her co-writer, Paul W. Downs, are two of the forces behind the web-gone-Comedy Central series “Broad City” (which was co-created by Glazer), but this movie is a lot broader. It’s farcical, situational, and over-the-top, yet it gives the actresses room to maneuver. Johansson, who got swallowed up in the “Blade-Runner”-meets-broken-glass cyber doldrums of “Ghost in the Shell,” has long avoided this sort of unabashed megaplex comedy, but it’s a pleasure to see her take on a role in which she can coast along on the no-nonsense vibrance of her personality. She makes Jess cautious but fast — a grown-up trying to let loose even as she keeps her inner desperado in check. Glazer, likewise, creates a lived-in character: a social justice warrior who is spoiled and annoying enough to cue us to the fact that her stridency is compensating for something. 
 
 It’s Jillian Bell who’s the film’s comic spark plug. Her Alice, as scripted, may seem like a walking “loser,” but Bell has the kind of hostile crack timing that Kathryn Hahn did in “Bad Moms.” When she gets a line like “I can’t just go to jail! I couldn’t even make it through the first episode of ‘Orange Is the New Black,'” she delivers it with dramatic sincerity, digging into the character’s anxiety, and her one-way duel with Pippa says much about the possessiveness of friendship. When Alice glares at her rival, her dark-saucer eyes gleam with a hilariously paranoid desperation that’s almost touching. 
 
 What do these five characters do with a corpse on their hands? They figure out ways to get rid of it. They debate the issue of whether they’re guilty of involuntary manslaughter (as long as the body just lies there, no; as soon as they make the mistake of moving it, maybe yes). And when they learn that the wealthy swingers next door, played with a bit too much on-the-nose hambone smarminess by Demi Moore and Ty Burrell, have surveillance cameras that may have recorded their cover-up scheme, they send Blair over to the house to sleep with the couple — a twist that would have worked better if Zoë Kravitz had more of a comic angle to play. 
 
 There are plenty of gags in “Rough Night” that don’t work, like the overly obvious role-reversal stunt of having Jess’ fiancée stage a bachelor party that’s an absurdly effete evening of wine-tasting. McKinnon, as Pippa, has an effervescent silliness, but too much of the joke of her performance boils down to her doing an Aussie accent as if that were a bubbly novelty. Yet Peter’s all-night-long drive to Miami to rescue Jess gets funnier as it goes along, and what’s amusing about the movie is the cocky texture of its feminine bonding — the jokes about home bikini waxing or scarfing pizza over a dead body, delivered with a new style of merciless aggression. It’s hardly the first, or most original, comedy of female outrage to come along, but we’ve had 40 years of men behaving badly on screen, stretching back to “National Lampoon’s Animal House,” and watching these ladies get their turn generates a slobby low-down kick. ||||| It’s hard enough being a woman filmmaker these days, but consider the plight of the woman filmgoer. It took years to get a big-budget Wonder Woman vehicle, and if you really must have role models in your movies, she’s probably not a bad one. But comedies in which women behave really badly—like 2016’s Bad Moms or Absolutely Fabulous: The Movie, or the more recent Snatched—have become the happy-hour cosmo of moviegoing. They’re plentiful, and supposedly just the ticket for women looking for a “girls’ night out” picture, just something fun to see for kicks. But if they’re supposed to be just a diversion, why—one after another—do they torture us with so many questions? Am I supposed to like this? Is this supposed to be funny? Does this really represent what Hollywood thinks most—or even just many or some—women really want from big-screen entertainment? 
 
 Rough Night, directed and co-written by Lucia Aniello—who has also written and directed numerous episodes of Broad City—is the latest entry in the “women whooping it up” genre, and it doesn’t make any of the above questions easier to answer. The movie—co-written by Paul Downs, Aniello’s boyfriend and writing partner, who also appears in the picture—is at its best when it catches the precise crosscurrent between sleazy and breezy. Scarlett Johansson is Jess, who’s launching a bid for state senator—she’s also about to be married, an adventure that just might be scarier than running for public office. Her old college clique—hoity-toity real-estate diva Blair (Zoë Kravitz), kooky activist Frankie (Ilana Glazer, of Broad City) and randy, insecure teacher Alice (Jillian Bell)—are spiriting her off to Miami for one last bachelorette weekend. They don’t know that she has also invited Pippa (Kate MacKinnon), a college friend they don’t know—Jess met her while spending a year abroad. Pippa is Australian, a loopy good-time girl with an Earth-mother streak, and her accent is a wild ocean of exaggerated rolling vowels. She barges into the movie in an assortment of tropical-printed rompers and maxi dresses, and she gets the movie’s best lines—or maybe she only makes them the best, unreeling them like crazy-colored party streamers. 
 
 The opening third of Rough Night is the best part of the movie and also the most predictable: The women get to Miami and commence partying, hard, immediately. Why is it funny when Frankie scores some coke and the women, at first reluctant to partake (one of them is running for public office, after all), end up descending upon it like gulls fighting for a scrap of fruit on a beach? Somehow the loose, coarse nuttiness of it works. There are props, including funny glasses with a fake penis where the nose should be. There’s a male stripper—make that two male strippers, at least in the literal sense that two brawny guys end up stripping down. But when the movie takes a sort-of dark turn into black-comedy territory, it starts to fall apart. The new, supposedly outrageous scenarios just aren’t as funny as the stock women-gone-wild gags. Ty Burrell and Demi Moore show up in tiny roles, as a kinky, predatory couple, but their oily come-ons are more limp than they are slippery. 
 
 The idea behind Rough Night isn’t bad by itself, and it’s fun to watch Johansson cutting loose in a comedy for a change. The picture also offers a few sight gags that are pure, dumb genius: they just work. (The sight of Downs, as Jess’ fiance, gingerly and acrobatically polishing the windshield of an eighteen-wheeler—did I mention he’s wearing a diaper?—isn’t something you’re likely to forget soon.) But Rough Night tries hard to capture the pleasurably profane, uncorked spirit of Broad City and doesn’t quite succeed, maybe because the joys of the show lie in how casual and intimate it is. Its glimpses into believable neurotic behavior among women are larkish and offhand—but blown up for the big screen, they’re not quite enough to fill it. I laughed a few times at Rough Night, often at MacKinnon and at least once at Downs in his diaper. And really, as Hangover-style dumb entertainments go, it’s certainly good enough. Which isn’t to say it’s anything close to what what women want. ||||| So Mike Tyson's tattoo artist tried to stop the worldwide distribution of "The Hangover Part II," based on the premise that the filmmakers had stolen his Maori-inspired design and stuck it on Ed Helms' face. I guess that wasn't much of a legal case, which is too bad, because as it turns out the guy was accidentally trying to perform a public service. Maybe he should have tried the argument that the movie sucks so bad that if anyone, anywhere, thinks he had anything to do with it that amounts to defamation of character. 
 
 Since we're talking about meta-narratives that are way more interesting than this bad and stupid movie, I guess we were supposed to think that director Todd Phillips and stars Bradley Cooper, Zach Galifianakis and Helms were being principled, woman-friendly men by kicking Mel Gibson out of "The Hangover Part II." That's nice and all, but at least Gibson, when he's being funny, is pretty damn funny. Speaking strictly from the perspective of someone who sat on my ass through this entire terrible movie, I'd gladly trade in the whole thing for five decent minutes of Mel. 
 
 Can I keep vamping for a while, and stave off the movie review? In France this would-be huge hit is known as "Very Bad Trip 2." (Those words, in English.) In Spanish-speaking countries, it's called "¿Que Paso Ayer? 2." In German, it's ... oh, all right. In English, it really should be called "Sex and the City 2: This Time It's for Guys." If you seriously need any more evidence that the raunchy bromance comedy genre has become a played-out shell of its former self, huffing the fumes of last night's stale beer (mixed with other unidentifiable fluids) in a back alley at dawn, the great burst of sour flatulence that is this overcooked sequel should provide it. Even as transparent attempts to recapture the so-called magic of a big hit go, this new voyage into manufactured outrageousness is especially shameless. Phillips and his co-writers, Craig Mazin and Scot Armstrong, seem to have launched into this project with a misguided faith in their own brilliance, but nothing resembling an idea or a story. 
 
 "Hangover II" simply recycles the bachelor-party-gone-awry gags from the 2009 summer hit, in a new and supposedly grittier context where the cast seems ill at ease, with much less comic effect and a lot more homophobia and xenophobia. It's a dumb, ugly and, most of all, painfully unfunny movie, which can't quite decide between competing touristic impulses: Bangkok as a pervy, nasty sex-trade destination and the mysterious East as the home of a superior, contemplative spirituality. It's like "Eat, Pray, Love," only with hot ladyboys to turn you gay and a cigarette-smoking monkey to steal your heart. 
 
 Do you really want me to provide some whimsical effort at plot synopsis, when you and I could both be using these few seconds for something else: reading about a maid-molesting French socialist or mocking the idiotic behavior of 2012 Republican presidential "candidates" or staring out our office windows in a melancholy stupor? OK, fine, but I don't want any complaints about how boring it sounds. So the "wolf pack" from the first movie reconvenes at a luxury resort in Thailand, where doofus dentist Stu (Helms) is supposed to marry a hot Asian chick named Lauren (Jamie Chung) whose dad hates him. (I went south on this movie as soon I realized that Stu had ditched the charming Vegas hooker he married in "The Hangover.") Cooper plays the douchey, studly Phil, who acts like a jerk all the time, and Galifianakis of course is the socially inept, passive-aggressive Alan, invited along for unclear reasons, since nobody likes him at all. 
 
 There's no big bachelor party or anything, just a late-night Budweiser around the campfire. But next thing these losers know they're waking up a day or so later in a sleazy hotel room in Bangkok, accompanied by the aforementioned chain-smoking monkey in his Rolling Stones denim vest, a severed finger that seems to belong to Lauren's med-student kid brother (Mason Lee), and the sleeping nude personage of Mr. Chow (Ken Jeong), the effeminate but kick-ass gangster from the first "Hangover." Actually, I was very, very glad to see Chow, because as much of a flaming stereotype as his character is, Jeong inhabits him with a ferocity that makes him by far the funniest and most real-seeming person in the movie. 
 
 Does that sound exactly like the first "Hangover," except with the wildlife made cuter and an exotic setting that's only going to produce dumb-ass cultural clichés, and no Mike Tyson? That's all correct except that Tyson shows up at the end to perform a rap version of "One Night in Bangkok," and you'll really wish he hadn't. Once again our heroes' missing hours are not entirely explained, but this time that decision feels sloppy and slapdash in a way it didn't quite in "The Hangover." Oh, there's a drug deal gone wrong and a low-grade American mobster played by Paul Giamatti and a Buddhist monk in a wheelchair. There's a fair amount of naked male peener, and of course there's the frat-boy-centric audience's greatest fear and/or desire: anal penetration. (I've seen at least four movies in the last year that resort to this as the ultimate squirm gag: The hero might take it from behind and like it!) 
 
 Now, in fairness I should add that I didn't think the first "Hangover" was all that great either, but it had several good laughs and a profane, open-hearted American cheerfulness about it that was hard to resist. "The Hangover Part II" trades that in for a B-grade thriller atmosphere that isn't quite convincing but manages to make all three of the central so-called buddies seem like creeps who don't actually like each other and can't relate to the world. Cooper and Galifianakis, in particular, are talented-ish actors who are stuck in really bad grooves and on the verge of typecasting themselves into oblivion, the former as a male-model jerkass irresistible to certain women (i.e., the shallow ones) and the latter as a pitiable misfit who's supposed to make us laugh uproariously at his Asperger-like behavioral problems and 1988 leisure-wear wardrobe. 
 
 I suspect there was half an impulse here -- or 20 percent of an impulse -- to take the "Hangover" characters and put them in a genuinely dark and dangerous situation. That might or might not have been interesting; it isn't that great of an idea, frankly, but it's something. Then the commercial necessity of giving a huge international audience a C-minus imitation of what they've already seen took over, and we got this shockingly inept retread instead. With "Hangover Part II," the worldwide downturn in dude comedy hits its nadir. Time to chillax and recharge, bros; check out the success of "Bridesmaids"; let the ladies have a little oxygen. We can only hope.
– A mostly female cast gathers for director Lucia Aniello's Rough Night, which reveals just how bad a bachelorette weekend with college friends can get, especially when male strippers are involved. If this plot seems a bit tired to you, you're not alone. The movie has a lackluster approval rating of about 50% among critics on Rotten Tomatoes, despite big-name stars such as Scarlett Johannson and Kate McKinnon. Samples: Rough Night "offers a few sight gags that are pure, dumb genius" and "is at its best when it catches the precise crosscurrent between sleazy and breezy." But when the movie takes a dark turn, "it starts to fall apart," Stephanie Zacharek writes at Time. "As Hangover-style dumb entertainments go, it's certainly good enough," she adds, but she isn't sure this is "anything close" to what women want to see. Owen Gleiberman, on the other hand, says Rough Night is "a perfect example of why Hollywood needs (many) more women filmmakers." Though its formula is quite "derivative," its female perspective makes it fresh, he writes at Variety. The best elements: "the feisty, claws-out spontaneity of its competitive banter between 'sisters' who love and hate each other" and Jillian Bell, "the film's comic spark plug." Leah Greenblatt was less tickled. Rough Night is "a raunchy, wildly off-the-rails farce" that "feels like the summer-movie equivalent of a fidget spinner: shiny, manic, and spiraling to nowhere," she writes at Entertainment Weekly. She does commend the casting—naming Ty Burrell and Demi Moore, who play a swingers couple—but adds the actors have to deal with a "loose cannon of a script." "Well, at least they got the title right," begins Adam Graham at the Detroit News. The rest of his review is no less harsh. "Rough Night is a dismal, excruciating experience, a tired retread of raunchy comedy tropes that can't be bothered to come up with any funny or original bits," he writes. Like one of its characters on cocaine, "it's frantic, scattered and convinced of its own greatness," then "empty and rather sad."