The first Hot Tub, a spirited Hangover derivative, qualified as a guilty pleasure; five years on, any enjoyment this afterthought generates may necessitate a lifetime of Hail Marys. With John Cusack awol, part deux focuses on the hangers-on, and the promotion of bare-chested, budgie-smuggling Rob Corddry to lead signals a change in comic direction: this one’s louder, crasser, sketchier. The relentless spitballing yields sporadic snorts, but with women reduced to walk-on titparts between stale knob gags, it absolutely feels like the bromance’s final, desperate throbs: Adam Scott’s televised sodomy and subsequent testicle-lancing mark but two instances where we pass beyond risqué hijinks into the realms of the flatly horrible.
