The bromance lingers on in Hollywood thinking, like a fart in a sex dungeon. Writer-director Scot Armstrong revises the general trajectory of his millennial hit Road Trip, this time with thirtysomething roomies retrieving a naked bud from Mexico. Guilty snorts lurk between the level-setting gay panic and the finale’s vomiting donkey, yet our dumbly conformist travelling companions aren’t particularly charming, and prove creepy around anything female. These films were always down on women – Armstrong squanders the peerless Krysten Ritter as eye candy – but this slovenly runaround only exposes the low opinion they’ve harboured of their target male demographic. We’re meant to identify with them?
