WHINE TIME: BAD MOMS

WHINE TIME: BAD MOMS

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If you’ve ever been to a preview screening of a (ahem) chick flick, you’ll have borne witness to the sordid, desperately contrived vision of contemporary femininity that is evidently vigorously espoused in first semester Public Relations.

Bolly’s slung about with reckless abandon, everything’s decked out in retina frying magenta and pulsating sequins, goodie bags full of lady-products and saucy colouring books are thrust anxiously into punters’ paws, and did I mention the Bolly?

I’ve been to a few of these things now- there are, perhaps, sinister insights into the sisterhood to be gained as the singular Y chromosome sporting audience member in a Gone Girl screening amped up on Appletinis and baying for Rosamund Pike’s blood.

About eighteen months back, I was at a screening of Andrey Zvyagintsev’s none-more-Russian retelling of the book of Job, the brilliant, melancholy Leviathan. Weaving back from a quick trip to recharge the libations I missed a turn and ended up, briefly, in a bubbly fuelled, lolly scented screening ofFifty Shades of Grey. It was fucking terrifying.

I honestly think the Leviathan distributors missed a trick when they failed to turn on the bottom shelf vodka and gift bags full of whale blubber soap and cheap smokes.

To Bad Moms. And oh, how I fucking loathe that Americanised spelling.

From the wretched minds behind The Hangover, here’s another WASPy, Mean Girls riffing comedy loaded with white picket fence blandishments and revelling in the weird passive aggressive warfare of marriage and the eternal quest to make sure all of the other ‘moms’ think you’re perfect or something. There’s a full roll call of gormless husbands, Stepford ice-queens, party girls, maternal martyrs and a solid complement of you-go-girl moments.

Admittedly, I am about as far from the target audience for this thing as could potentially be lab-spawned. But then again, I’ve never lived in a Russian fishing village, either, and that flick sure worked its spell on me.

Bad Moms is utterly forgettable, a sad reflection on pretty much everything about white middle class priorities in 2016. I just don’t understand these fucking people in the slightest.

Now, speaking of that Bolly- the biggest laugh I got out of Bad Moms was my egregiously timed cork popping of the gratis champagne I’d swindled out of the bar staff when I realised we were in for a turgid slog of a flick. Oh, I am a Bad Attaché.

Second biggest laugh? The unintentionally hilarious, “Adults Only” colouring book, emblematic of the whole sad pose of this desperately ‘edgy’ fare, trading entirely in toothless “Mommy Needs Wine” fare that even my saintly mother wouldn’t bat an eyelid at.

Here, print a few out and lay into them with some cathartic Wild At Heart inspired lipstick nervous breakdowns.

Come to think of it, Diane fucking Ladd- that’s your prototypical “Bad Mom”right there.

Go watch Wild At Heart instead, you guys.

You’re welcome.


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