We didn’t leave the theatre because the movie was bad, we just weren’t there to see it. We were just killing time. We could have stayed, but there nothing compelling enough in the film to warrant it.

In the opening scene, Zissou’s newest film is presented to an opera house full of e’er-do-wells, receiving yawns and disappointment. How freaking fitting.

Every facet of the movie seemed narcissistic, bloated with gobs of unnecessary scenes and lines. The plot went nowhere fast, tongue-in-cheeking us to death with uninspiring pseudowit and forced self-farce.

I’m sure it’s been said a billion times before, but if you’re looking for another “Das Royal Tenenbaums”, you’ll either have to wait for Wes Anderson’s next try or make it yourself.

This thing felt like a confused entry in a modsnob’s diary.

Beautiful Americans and Brits cheating on each other with each other. There are a few good points made in the film, like… well, nevermind.

It’s basically just a fast-paced one-linerfest that plays with the idea of successful people being sexually vulgar, each in a different way.

One’s a stripper, one’s a pornaholic, one’s a liar, one’s a revolving divorc�e. You get the idea.