When you enter a theater knowing full well you're in for two hours of numbing scatology, moronic repetition and Chevy Chase -- all wrapped into one -- you feel elated and lucky to simply leave the building alive.
I'm actually, honestly going to say something almost uncranky about this film. I was nearly overcome with glee -- the kind I haven't felt since my last enema -- when, at the end of this film, I found I still had the will to live. Of course, when my head cleared and I realized I was having warm feelings toward a Chevy Chase film, I immediately threw up on the theater manager and regained my psychic balance.
I suppose it's proof that everything is relative. The simple fact that this film wasn't as bad as either "European Vacation" or "Christmas Vacation" seemed to me a miracle on the order of seeing Jesus Christ appear out of nowhere to give the Pope a Holy Wedgie on worldwide TV. When you enter a theater knowing full well you're in for two hours of numbing scatology, moronic repetition and Chevy Chase -- all wrapped into one -- you feel elated and lucky to simply leave the building alive.
I suppose such a reaction represents the ultimate victory for Hollywood, which has razed our expectations to the point that we tremble with gratitude when a film is just "bad" as opposed to downright torturous. With just a little less pain, we're eager to accede that 2 + 2 equals $7.50.
Imagine, all this relief for a movie in which Chevy Chase and Beverly D'Angelo do exactly what they did in the original "Vacation," except this time it's in Las Vegas. It's exactly the same crap. It's not worth watching. It's not worth renting. Bless our benevolent Hollywood masters for not making it worse.
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