Send us a text

A goat gag, a blow dart, and one perfect Norm Macdonald riff walk into a movie. We dive into The Animal with our gloves off and our sense of humor intact, asking a simple question that unlocks the whole watch: can lowbrow comedy land when the lead can’t elevate the bit? One of us relishes the film’s shameless silliness and second-screen charm; the other sees a conveyor belt of half-built jokes that never earn their own punchlines. From the evidence-room meltdown to the press conference “what’s in my butt” moment, we break down why justification is the secret ingredient that turns a smirk into an actual laugh.

We pull on the bigger comedy thread too—what separates Rob Schneider’s neutral energy from Jim Carrey’s bit-running force of nature, and why even a brief cameo can reveal the gulf. Then Norm Macdonald storms in with a mob scene so precisely built—questions, rhythm, escalation—that it becomes a mini masterclass in how to make a premise sing. Around that, we interrogate the movie’s inconsistent “animal science,” the romance logic that never makes sense, and the tonal snapping between mailbox-humping discomfort and a dolphin-style hero save that forgets the seal on the poster.

Beyond the laughs and groans, we branch into what keeps movies in the culture. We celebrate the early-2000s needle drops that still slap, contrast box office muscle with cultural cachet through the Avatar lens, and talk about spectacle that satisfies in the moment but leaves no totems behind. We also swap notes on Under the Silver Lake, where mood can outlast meaning, and wrestle with the Stranger Things finale—how manipulation and catharsis can coexist when the craft is confident. Stick around to the end for our next watch: Steven Soderbergh’s Presence, a ghost’s-eye experiment that promises rules, restraint, and plenty to argue about.

Enjoyed the ride? Follow, rate, and share the show with a friend who knows the difference between a setup and a payoff. Your rec keeps the bits running.

Written Lovingly by AI

Be our friend!

Dan: @shakybacon
Tony: @tonydczech

And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us a text

We had questions the moment Playdate 2025 opened on a joyless car chase and a baffling lacrosse scene—and then Isla Fisher strolled in with the “Mama Mafia” and Alan Ritchson arrived like a golden retriever with black-ops training. That’s the whiplash of this Prime Video action-comedy: when the energy is right, it’s hilarious; when the foundation wobbles, even a decent gag falls flat.

We break down why the first act muddies everything a comedy needs to thrive—clear relationships, clean stakes, and jokes that sit inside structure. The stepdad-stepkid bond veers from clingy devotion to cold indifference, making the “learning to protect” arc impossible to buy. Then the movie’s best ideas surface: coin-sock mayhem at a Chuck E. Cheese knockoff, a killer phone-call bit mid-car-chase, and Stephen Root delivering a masterclass in character POV in under five minutes. We dig into how Ritchson nails a weird tone—sweet, blunt, and physically sharp—while Kevin James never finds the same wavelength.

Yes, we get into the clone twist. On paper, it’s a playful genre swing that could power the back half. In practice, CGI crowds replace practical chaos, the chase geography collapses, and a sharp final brawl is undercut by shaky-cam that hides the good choreography. And then there’s the choice that derails goodwill: the “kaboom” that wipes out a building of clone kids. Dark comedy needs purpose and release; this feels like shock for shock’s sake and breaks the one humane thread the movie earns with CJ.

We don’t just roast—we rebuild. Tighten the stepdad arc, anchor the chase with real geography, keep the coin-sock, bring Mama Mafia back for a third-act save, and swap the finale’s cruelty for a convoy of silver vans whisking kids to safety. With a strategic recast and a structural pass, this could have been a tight, rewatchable romp.

If you enjoy craft talk—comedy structure, tone management, practical vs CGI, and performances that recalibrate scenes—press play. Then tell us: is Playdate 2025 one smart rewrite away from great, or does the ending lose you for good? Subscribe, share with a friend, and drop your fix in a review.

Be our friend!

Dan: @shakybacon
Tony: @tonydczech

And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us a text

A Vespa hums into Bakersfield, a church robe hides bondage gear, and a smooth-talking reverend runs a drug ring between sermons about macaroni. We dive into Honey Don’t with a simple litmus test for any detective story: does the protagonist actually want something concrete? When a PI drifts through clues without being hired, breaking in, or deducing much of anything, style and shock have to work overtime. Sometimes they do—there’s a killer dark-comic exchange where the reverend clarifies which “loose end” needs cutting, and a punchy beatdown where Honey demolishes her niece’s abuser and half the set with a stubborn attempt to break a gun. Those moments pop because desire finally drives action.

Most of the time, though, the movie trades plot for “period interest.” Public intimacy scenes and graphic interludes arrive without chemistry or consequence, the police flirtation thread wanders, and tonal flourishes—freeze-frame credits, a lounge pianist narrator, and a congregation chanting “macaroni”—feel like disconnected curios. We contrast that with great shaggy noirs that still hum on character wants. The Big Lebowski may meander, but everyone wants something, and that magnet pulls you through. Here, the late twist that recasts MG as the true monster doesn’t reframe earlier clues so much as overwrite them, draining suspense and turning the finale into a list of facts instead of a reckoning.

We talk craft throughout: how color and quirky detail should feed a throughline; how stakes escalate when choices collide; why romance needs buildup to matter; and how consequence grounds even the wildest genre swings. Bakersfield looks great. Chris Evans chews scenery like a pro. But without a spine of desire and payoff, Honey Don’t plays like a collage—provocative, occasionally funny, and oddly hollow once the noise fades.

If you’re into smart, spirited takedowns of messy movies, queue this one up, then tell us your spiciest take. Subscribe, drop a review, and let us know: did any of it work for you, or are we right to call it a case with no core?

Written lovingly by AI

Be our friend!

Dan: @shakybacon
Tony: @tonydczech

And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us a text

A healing unicorn, a billionaire’s lodge, and a night that should have dripped with dread instead slides into confusion. We dive into Death of a Unicorn with fresh eyes and plenty of receipts—where the premise shines, why the scares fizzle, and how the story trades suspense for unfinished spectacle. From the first “we hit something on the road” beat to that jarring daylight time jump, we trace the exact moments the movie stops trusting mystery and starts overexposing its creature.

We talk craft first. Creature features live or die on restraint, and this one shows the monster early and often, leaning on CGI that can’t carry the weight. We unpack how to rebuild the same scenes with tension: silhouettes over full frames, sound over splash, partial reveals over glory shots. Then we get into character stakes. The father’s “financial promise,” the daughter’s supposed purity, and a horn that cures, resurrects, and randomly bestows visions—none of it plays by rules the audience can follow. So we outline the fix: make the horn addictive, tie each character’s need to a cost, and let greed fracture alliances until humans pose the real threat.

There’s also a problem of lore without payoff. The tapestry research looks impressive, but discovery never changes tactics. We explore how good supernatural stories use clues to pivot action and how consistent rules turn fear into momentum. Along the way, we call out the casting trap—banking on a beloved actor to redeem an irredeemable arc—and the ethical shortcuts that undercut the finale, including a needless casualty to clean up the plot.

If you love horror that earns its chills, or you’re writing your own low-budget creature story, this breakdown doubles as a playbook: define your rules, sharpen your motives, and let the audience’s imagination do the expensive work. Listen, then tell us the trope you’d retire forever, and if you enjoyed the show, follow, rate, and share with a friend who argues about movie logic as hard as you do.

Be our friend!

Dan: @shakybacon
Tony: @tonydczech

And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us a text

A leather jacket Santa, a melted plane, and a train to the wrong city—on paper it sounds wild. We hit play on the Jonas Brothers holiday special expecting cozy carols and earned nostalgia, and got a glossy tour of Europe where money and magic wipe away every consequence. The result is a Christmas road movie with no real road and no reason to hurry home, propped up by a handful of good jokes and one romance beat that almost redeems the trip.

We unpack why the core premise falls flat: when passports vanish but a new jet appears in minutes, tension dies. Santa as a snarky saboteur doesn’t mentor or challenge the brothers; he detonates obstacles instead of nudging growth. That choice undercuts the holiday grammar that makes films like Home Alone and Elf endure—clear rules, genuine stakes, and heart over spectacle. We talk lip sync problems, songs that feel stapled on, and a Home Alone musical gag that somehow works despite a convoluted setup. Then we trace the character arcs that should have mattered: Kevin’s desire for a real vocal moment, Nick’s control streak, Joe’s playboy reputation versus a surprisingly sweet connection with Lucy.

It’s not all coal. We call out the lines that hit, the chemistry that clicks, and the cleaner version hiding in plain sight: fewer explosions, more constraints, and music that actually drives character and story. A better structure would give each brother a problem to own and solve, with Santa as a wry guide rather than a wrecking ball. Along the way we detour into Rotten Tomatoes whiplash, holiday ranking sanity checks, and a couple quick recs—yes, Knives Out fans, we see you.

If you’ve watched the special, hit play and argue with us; if you haven’t, we’ll help you decide if the cozy vibes outweigh the plot holes. Subscribe, drop a review, and tell us: did you laugh, cringe, or secretly love it anyway?

Written lovingly by AI

Be our friend!

Dan: @shakybacon
Tony: @tonydczech

And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us a text

What happens when a brilliant concept crumbles under its own weight? We dive headfirst into The Truman Show and pull at every loose thread: a dome you can see from space, a moon that doubles as a control booth, rain on a dimmer, and a hero who behaves like a normal adult instead of someone raised by a stage. We’re not here to nitpick for sport—we’re asking how this story should work if it wants to be a satire, a thriller, or a character drama, and why it lands in a mushy middle where none of those genres truly sing.

From Plato’s Cave to product placement, we walk through the philosophical promise the film hints at but rarely honors. If every relationship is an advertisement, then lean in: make the world a nonstop sales pitch where Truman’s wife, friends, and neighbors are always selling, and his dawning awareness is inevitable and painful. If it aims to be a thriller, lock the world’s rules, tighten the surveillance, and make each escape attempt a credible chess match. If it wants character drama, reshape Truman’s mind—how he understands weather, intimacy, trust—so his confusion feels like a life-long conditioning rather than a week of convenient glitches. We also dig into the ethics that the film shrugs off: consent inside a staged marriage, the grotesque idea of a “live conception,” and the hollow claim that “he can leave anytime” while hazmat teams haul him home.

We revisit standout sequences—the falling light, the radio bleed, the traffic loop, the boat into the painted horizon—and ask why these moments should soar but don’t. Ed Harris brings steel as Kristof, yet the god-voice scene undercuts itself by offering a safe return no human could accept. And that final audience beat, the channel flip after 30 years, says more about the movie’s uncertainty than about us. Along the way, we compare the show’s fantasy to today’s reality TV, from the quiet sincerity of early Love Island seasons to the engineered chaos that drives modern engagement, and the extraordinary longitudinal honesty of the Seven Up series. Knowing what audiences actually watch makes the Truman premise feel even less plausible.

Stick around to hear what we’re queuing up next—yes, a holiday curveball—and where we think televised storytelling goes from here as streamers consolidate and theater windows shrink. If you enjoy a spirited teardown with a blueprint for a better version, hit follow, leave a review, and share this with a friend who still quotes “Good afternoon, good evening, and good night.” Then tell us: would you stay in the dome or walk through the exit?

Written lovingly with AI

Be our friend!

Dan: @shakybacon
Tony: @tonydczech

And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us a text

The trailer had us hopeful; the movie had us baffled. We dive into The Pickup and pull apart why a slick heist premise, a stacked cast, and a veteran director still yield a comedy-thriller with no real stakes and a whole lot of shrugs. From the opening bank “meet-cute” with a drawn gun that triggers zero fallout to an armored-truck chase that looks slow because it’s shot too wide and scored too flat, we track how craft choices drain momentum and mute laughs. Eddie Murphy sets up a character with a clear goal, Pete Davidson aims for endearing idiot energy, and Kiki Palmer arrives with a revenge motive that should add pathos—yet none of it bonds into chemistry or tension.

We spend time on the filmmaking: why long lenses and tighter coverage sell speed; how music should escalate emotion; and what happens when geography, cause, and effect get fuzzy. We also examine character math. Playing “dumb” requires sharp intention, but Travis quips from the sidelines while the script swears his math brain matters. Russell’s anniversary ticking clock evaporates the moment it’s convenient. A hostage check-in rule is established then never used. When consequences vanish, audience investment goes with them. Still, there are bright spots: a brutally funny run-over gag, a perfectly human “that went terribly” phone bit, Eva Longoria’s decisive car moment, and Marshawn Lynch trying to manufacture laughs out of thin air.

The heist logic gets our full audit too: RFID hand-waving, casino cash tracking, schedules, and how laundering would actually work. We talk pancakes, butt jokes, and why romance beats fall flat when performance doesn’t carry the feeling. If you love action-comedy with punch and pace, this breakdown shows why The Pickup doesn’t deliver—and what would’ve fixed it. Stick around to hear what we’re watching next as we tee up a revisit of The Truman Show.

Enjoyed the episode? Follow, rate, and share with a friend who loves a good takedown. Got a spiciest plot hole or favorite bad line from The Pickup? Drop it in a review and tag us so we can feature your take.

Be our friend!

Dan: @shakybacon
Tony: @tonydczech

And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us a text

A time machine that behaves like a fax, a grenade that hops centuries, and an ear that turns into destiny—this conversation goes deep on why Timeline is both ridiculous and ridiculously enjoyable. We break down the movie’s soft science with a smile, from wormholes that sometimes sync to the minute to medallions that only work when the plot says so. Then we zoom in on what actually sells the ride: Gerard Butler’s early-era charisma, Anna Friel’s spark as Claire, and Michael Sheen chewing the castle tapestries with villainous delight.

We also get practical about medieval mayhem. The siege stretches bring real texture—trebuchets thudding, moats igniting, “night arrows” cutting the dark—and Greek fire delivers a rare Chekhov’s payoff that feels satisfyingly tactile. Does the movie look like TV sometimes? Sure. Do the costumes read like Ren fair fresh? Absolutely. But when a sword drops in front of a hiding hero, or a tunnel cracks open behind a monastery wall, the film finds momentum that feels genuinely cinematic. Along the way, we test the internal logic, laugh at the paradoxes, and admit the obvious: fun can trump coherence when performances and set-pieces click.

Our side quests matter too. We weigh nostalgia’s sway with a Goonies, Lost Boys, and Monster Squad detour, argue about changing history versus curating legend, and even share Thanksgiving stuffing tips because timing is everything. The finale’s sarcophagus epilogue reframes the whole story as myth-making, and that’s where we land: if legend is the point, strict causality can step aside. Hit play to hear us debate, cackle, and celebrate the small victories that make sloppy sci-fi sing. If you enjoy the show, leave a comment, give us a thumbs up, or subscribe—then tell us your favorite “good bad” movie.

Written lovingly by AI

Be our friend!

Dan: @shakybacon
Tony: @tonydczech

And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us a text

Dinosaurs, portals, and a chorus line of pterodactyls should be a slam dunk. We dove into Land of the Lost to figure out why a movie with so many toys keeps losing the game—and how a few smart changes could have turned chaos into comedy that sticks. We start with the core misfire: Will Ferrell is asked to play a straight-man scientist and a clueless clown at the same time, which erases any clean arc and drains the stakes from every set piece. Absurd can be brilliant when the rules are tight; here, the rules shift whenever a gag needs help. One scene uses a waterfall as a portal, another opens a door in midair, and the “land of lost things” includes stuff that was never lost. Without consistent logic, action stops dead so jokes can breathe, and then the jokes run out of air.

There are bright spots. Danny McBride keeps landing sly, character-driven lines because his POV is clear: selfish bluster that occasionally flips into loyal friend. The sleestaks’ intentionally rubbery vibe nods to the original show in a way we liked, and a handful of bits nearly work: the “big brain” T‑Rex who understands insults, the nitrogen catapult that wants to homage Jaws, and the fake-sleep dodge before a dangerous egg run. The problem is follow-through. Setups don’t pay off, tension stalls for monologues, and the movie undercuts its own best ideas. Imagine a version where Ferrell’s scientist maps portal patterns to get home, the T‑Rex feud resolves with a comedic apology instead of a digestive punchline, and Holly’s language skill consistently solves crystal puzzles rather than a lucky belt-reflection trick.

We don’t just roast; we rebuild. Give the world three simple rules, lock each character’s goal, and let the bits escalate instead of pause. The result is a fun, rule-bound playground where McBride’s chaos sharpens Ferrell’s growth and the creature gags actually matter. If you’re into comedy craft, story structure, and the joy of almost-great ideas, you’ll have a blast with this one. Hit play, then tell us your favorite broken setup—and how you’d fix it. And if you’re new here, subscribe, drop a review, and share this with a friend who loves a good movie autopsy.

Written lovingly by AI

Be our friend!

Dan: @shakybacon
Tony: @tonydczech

And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT

Send us a text

What happens when a sharp horror-comedy premise gets tripped up by soggy jokes and TV-flat reactions? We dig into Little Evil with a filmmaker’s eye and a comic’s ear, mapping the moments that could have soared if the setups, POV, and character logic actually aligned. From the tornado wedding and the defensive videographer to the CPS visit with Sally Field and the clown-on-fire gag, we point to where the movie almost clicks—and how a few simple escalations could have turned “heh” into real laughs.

We talk casting and cadence—why Adam Scott feels stuck between unaffected snark and sincere guardian, and why Evangeline Lilly’s character needs true naivete or sharper subversion to sell the cult backstory. We break down the stepdad circle, the missing runners, and the squandered improv energy, highlighting the rare lines that do land because they come from a clear scene location and status game. Then we tackle the water park turn: why comedy needs agency over skywriting, how competing “signs” would heighten indecision into a great gag, and why the story works best once the promise to protect the kid becomes the emotional north star.

The finale shows the movie that could have been: a tighter cult showdown, a sincere bond, and a couple of truly funny beats when everyone finally knows where they are in the scene. Along the way, we offer craft fixes—repetition, heightening, physical business that breathes, and jokes that emerge from character instead of references. We wrap with quick recs: the baffling IT prequel pilot, dirt-under-the-nails seventies thriller When a Stranger Calls, and the confidently directed Weapons. Hit play, debate with us, and tell us your rewrite for the water park scene. If you had one change to make Little Evil sing, what would it be? Subscribe, drop a comment, and share your best punch-up.

Written Lovingly by AI

Be our friend!

Dan: @shakybacon
Tony: @tonydczech

And follow the podcast on IG: @hatewatchingDAT