The 2. 0 worst films of 2. Tomorrow, The. A. V. Club dramatically unveils its list of the year’s best movies, counting down our favorite summer blockbusters, award- season indies, and foreign- made triumphs from 2. Before we get to the highs, however, it’s our duty (okay, our petty pleasure) to dispense with the lows: Like the artist responsible for our favorite album of the year, we’ve got a bone to pick, and it’s with every execrable entry on the list below—a hall of shame wide enough to accommodate horror hackworks, witless studio comedies, tone- deaf social issue movies, and not one but two “unconventional” Katherine Heigl vehicles. For masochists, hecklers, and connoisseurs of crap, the good news is that most of these massive misfires are available to rent today. Let the hate- binge begin! You know that recent recurring Saturday Night Live sketch where a bunch a high school theater geeks subject their parents to an evening of heavy- handed sketches about intolerance?

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Those kids could’ve easily written Jenny’s Wedding, which sets out to blow minds by casting romantic comedy queen Katherine Heigl as a lesbian who—brace yourself—is getting married. Rather than dealing with the real- life quirks of gay weddings, or the more subtle forms of bigotry that actual queer couples deal with every day, writer- director Mary Agnes Donoghue puts her heroine through a series of blunt confrontations: with her conservative parents, with their even- more- conservative friends, and so on and so on. It’s difficult to say who Donoghue thinks the audience for this movie is, unless she’s hoping that some homophobe at a Redbox will rent it for Heigl and be transformed by the power of art.

The same goes for anybody thinking of watching this DOA sci- fi thriller, which aims for mumblecore cred by casting Mark Duplass, possibly the least convincing brainy medical researcher in movie history. The fact that the film is short doesn’t make its storyline feel any less padded out by lame jump scares and feebly hallucinatory flashbacks to a mystery that most of the audience will have solved the first time it’s brought up. A bona fide oddity—set in Chicago, but very clearly shot in the Michigan boonies—the movie prominently features suicide via Chinese takeout, suspiciously suburban- looking inner- city locations, an AMC Gremlin, after- school- special gangbangers named Kriminal and Nefarious, Tim Hortons coffee, and former Seattle Seahawks linebacker Brian Bosworth. For viewers who want to experience the so- called “faith- based” film industry’s unique combination of wish- fulfillment fantasy, deranged soap opera, and amateurishness, this is the movie to see. Yes, the U. S. But what if the biological father of a motherless biracial child just happened to be a drug- addicted deadbeat, while her racist- sounding grandfather (Kevin Costner, wasting a good performance) just plain doesn’t get along with her black grandmother, who protects the deadbeat son out of misguided loyalty?

Then wouldn’t there be some biases perpetuated against the poor, misunderstood middle- aged white guy? Binder seems to think he might blow and change minds simultaneously with his endlessly spun- out what- if scenarios, and as such piles up a series of baldly strategic attempts at “balance”—an upstanding black lawyer to counter the deadbeat dad; “real” racists to counter the more sensitive Costner. There’s plenty of courtroom grandstanding (the black female judge doesn’t approve of the deadbeat either! More balance!) but none as embarrassing as Binder’s screenplay, where all of the characters come across like hypotheticals from a terrible Facebook comment thread. More than anything, it stinks of awkward studio/agency packaging, throwing the distinctive comic personas of Vince Vaughn and Dave Franco together with successful French- Canadian filmmaker Ken Scott (best known for Starbuck) and veteran screenwriter Steve Conrad (who penned The Weather Man), then just sort of assuming that something would spark. Divx Movies Dvd Beguiled (2017) more.

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Instead, Vaughn comes off as more strained and sad than usual, playing a businessman making a job- saving trip abroad, while Franco and the rest of the cast all wander off into their own little TV- style B- and C- plots. Why are so few mainstream comedies these days actually funny? It’s because anyone with any talent right now would rather be making television. That hunt is complicated by Hardy’s cop being vilified for his wife’s supposed activities as a spy, though trying to make heads or tails of the various plot strands running throughout Daniel Espinosa’s film requires significant detective work, so muddied is this grim, grimy saga’s storytelling. Amid much badly accented dialogue that does nothing to clear up the plot’s convolutions, Kinnaman proves the film’s weakest link, chewing scenery so voraciously as the tale’s nominal villain that he ultimately undermines any faint semblance of seriousness. But The Green Inferno, a dopey tribute to the Italian cannibal films of his youth, takes the isolationist slant of his oeuvre to condescending new depths: Here, the college kids get munched for having the nerve to!

Even those able to swallow Roth’s confused trolling will still have to stomach the way he somehow preserves the inherent racism of the movies he’s referencing while also stripping them of their nightmarish, snuff- film power. Arriving in theaters two years after its festival premiere, and a mere two weeks before Roth’s vastly superior Knock Knock, The Green Inferno crawled out of release- date purgatory just to piss all over the very idea of idealism. It should have stayed buried. Add in the fact that a large chunk of the movie consists of licensed footage and videos of people talking about how much the source material meant to them, and what you’ve got is this year’s answer to Atlas Shrugged, Part III: a movie that somehow feels like an amateurish knock- off of itself. Remarkably, Jem And The Holograms even managed to fail at being dirt cheap, doing worse than just about any movie ever to get a wide international release.

Kill Me Three Times. Simon Pegg is a likable guy, but his taste in material, apart from his collaborations with Edgar Wright and his franchise work (Star Trek, Mission: Impossible), is atrocious. Having headlined one of last year’s worst films (Hector And The Search For Happiness), he now turns up as part of the ensemble in Kill Me Three Times,an Australian comedy- thriller that’s neither funny nor exciting—just pointlessly ugly. Its convoluted plot, rendered even more confusing by a non- linear three- part structure, owes a lot to Blood Simple, but the Coen brothers’ dry wit and visual sophistication are nowhere to be found here. It’s just a bunch of awful people being awful to each other, with Pegg, as a black- clad hired killer, struggling to be the least rancid of the various miscreants (played by the likes of Alice Braga, Luke Hemsworth, and Bryan Brown).

The guy must have better things to do with his time. But The Wedding Ringer does nothing with either of these ideas. Even though director and co- writer Jeremy Garelick has polished comic actors Kevin Hart and Josh Gad plugging away gamely, he shies away from his own darkly funny premise, and instead loads up on kooky supporting players, broad slapstick, and joke after joke about how male friendship is kinda icky—and possibly gay. After coming up with a clever(ish) title, Garelick apparently went into cruise control. Isn’t there some fine that can be levied against filmmakers who waste a good premise? Boasting none of the lyricism, grace or psychological incisiveness of his prior masterworks (Paris, Texas; Wings Of Desire), Wenders’ latest is a misbegotten stew of turgid drama and look- at- me 3- D gimmickry, with the director using his signature special effects to highlight foreground- background dynamics in the most unnecessarily self- conscious manner possible.