The Happytime Murders Review: Down And Dirty Fluff

This is a concept that can only be taken so far. You get the impression that the human cast members were desperate for work. Apparently, Melissa McCarthy helped write/doctor some of the screenplay, which seems to be a blatant excuse for her to squeeze her husband into the film for his obligatory cameo. To set the record straight, all of the reviews you’ve seen for this film that label it as atrocious, one of the worst of the year, and an unwatchable mess are totally vindicated. But the film can also be enjoyable because it’s so bad.

The Happytime Murders is no Meet the Feebles, but it’s one reach-around away from being the most memorable fluff-inflicted climax that you wish you could forget. A film that makes you laugh out loud from being so bad is just as relevant as the film that makes you laugh out loud on purpose with good writing and a talented cast.

With all of its genital biting and incestuous encouragement, The Happytime Murders is the result of what it would feel like to snort a plate full of purple rock sugar with a red licorice whip lodged up your nostril; a disastrous felt orgy fever dream with a disgusting sexual appetite that makes you laugh like an idiot solely because you’re under the influence of a continental hot sock.