Mortdecai
How quaint. It appears that someone thought that the best part of Ocean’s Eleven was the horrendous British accents and the sex jokes, and therefore based the entirety of a major motion picture on those skits. Preposterous, I say, good chap.
In addition to mixing upper class twits and ghastly breast-based pratfalls, there are also testicular-based mirth to be had in these appalling ersatz comedy performances.
How in the lord’s name have the authorities chose Johnny Depp to reprise his most popular of characters, Commodore Jack of Sparrow, is unknown, as this film is devoid of any ocean-worthy vessels nor piracy, in the strict sense of the word. For the Baroness which does nothing but blowing hot hair, the peddler of vaginal-scented candles and other curios is aptly picked; Paltrow needs paltry skill.
The largest issue to be found in this whole ordeal is there is no larger-than-life villain, no big antagonist which imperils our protagonists. Not even HMRC is feared, the sacrilege. Olivia Munn is unable to be feared if all she does is use her modest physical attributes for failed seduction.
This is my place for ramblings about sequences of images that exploit the human visual limitation know as persistence of vision.