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Robin and the Hoods is a live-action, feature-length, and (more importantly) unofficial adaptation of Craig of the Creek. The Robin Hood stuff is a feeble, purely nominal attempt to throw me off the scent, but I can see right through it.

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To paraphrase John Cusack in High Fidelity, holding a boombox playing Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” above your head if you’re not John Cusack is like sleeping with Talia Shire in Rocky if you’re not Rocky.

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It could be Ricky Rouse instead of Mickey Mouse, and the difference would be negligible. The obvious lesson here is to not rush headlong to prey on someone else’s intellectual property. Just because you can doesn’t mean you should, especially if you don’t have a plan.

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My brother Andrés might enjoy Hard Miles. I don’t know how he feels about so-called true stories wherein a White Savior’s unorthodox methods change the lives of a group of semi-tough, underprivileged, inner-city juvenile delinquents (each with darker skin than the one before), but he’s really keen on bicycle touring, so there’s that.

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“It is a truth universally acknowledged that three scorching hot sisters who live in a West Village townhouse will not stay single for long.” At least they got the “scorching hot” part right.

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As the title implies, Gabby is a bad little girl, or rather a little bad girl. The point is, she’s no little girl. From the back in a darkly lit alley, she might have fooled the late, great Donald Sutherland, but Gabby’s face is a dead giveaway. Stunted growth aside, this is an unequivocally grown-ass woman.

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Visher is closer to a Paranormal Activity rip-off than anything else, except that the jump-scary activity isn’t really paranormal, although it is equally impossible to account for rationally.

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Mr. Right has the perfect name for a fictional dating app. Blundr sounds like Tinder and Grindr but it’s a great deal more honest. Brevity is the soul of wit. Sadly, this is otherwise just another witless, predictable heteronormative romcom, rather than a parody thereof.

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Furia is set in a country where “individual liberties are strictly controlled,” but the only liberty we ever see repressed is the liberty to graffiti, which is of course not a liberty at all — it’s called vandalism.

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Even those who liked My Spy (and I must confess I’m one of them) couldn’t have been clamoring for a sequel. Who in their right mind would want another movie co-starring Ken Jeong and Kristen Schaal? Especially one wherein they make out (Yarrr! That’s going to replace the whale in my nightmares!).

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Gun Shy is about an aging, allegedly Chilean rockstar who speaks English with a Spanish accent because he’s played by a Spanish actor who can’t or won’t do a Chilean accent.

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The reluctance to explore the premise’s farcical possibilities, which pompous Fincher no doubt felt were beneath him, stands in direct opposition to the spirit of the original piece.

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Thanks to Space Cadet, Red Rover is now only the second-dumbest ‘let’s go to Mars (but not really)’ movie, and Homer the second-dumbest fictional character surnamed Simpson to have gone to space.

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This movie is formulaic, but only because it knows better than to fuck with the formula. Nobody does Axel Foley like Eddie Murphy, and he’s in too great a shape, mentally and physically, to be passing no goddamn torch.

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Back to Black is so full of shit it should have been called Back to Brown instead. In fact, this is not the story of Amy Winehouse; it’s the story of Amy Shithouse (no disrespect to the real Amy, who is the one getting the shit end of the stick here).

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A Thousand Words is a self-defeating premise. Kind of like Liar Liar if Jim Carrey had been able to keep lying after his son’s birthday wish.

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JP

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