Good Mourning
Good Mourning:
The Worst Mediocre-Rapper-Turned-Mediocre-“Punk”-Star-Turned-Awful-Screenwriter
Stoner-“Comedy”-Miscommunication-Trainwreck-Pineapple-Express-Wannabe
“Film” YOU’LL EVER SEE!
(And hopefully you won’t!)
Tessa Kennedy (she/her)
I wish the ridiculously long title of this review were the end of it. I essentially said enough. But for those of you who have time on your hands and/or want to see MGK get dragged through the mud, kindly read on. Also, I’m on a deadline and don’t want to have watched this for nothing.
The film Good Mourning is written and directed by the one and only Machine Gun Kelly, who, after being bullied from one genre of music to another, apparently has tried comedy writing for kicks. He also plays our main character, an actor named London Clash because… subtlety. When waking up the morning of his big meeting to see if he’ll play the next Batman, he gets two texts from his girlfriend: “I wish I didn’t have to do it this way but-” “good mourning”. Mr. Clash sees this and spirals, thinking it’s a breakup text, and spends the rest of the movie trying to talk to her, smoking an ungodly amount of weed, and expecting us to believe that his character would ever be considered for the Batman franchise.
I need you to understand: I am a dumb, simple bitch. I love a bad movie. A guilty pleasure. Something that doesn’t take itself too seriously. A Sharknado. (National treasure.) A Sex and the City 2, if you will. (Invented feminism.) With the silly, turn-off-your-brain plot that I described above, I expected to find this movie obviously moronic but fun to laugh at. So I say this with zero hyperbole: Good Mourning is the worst film I’ve ever seen.
It felt like hell, or as if a frat boy were given a $1,000 film budget, a joint, and access to however many D-list “celebrities” he wanted. (Except for Whitney Cummings. Shoutout to her, for being the comedian I listen to when I need my dose of misandrist content. She’s not…funny, but she did what needed to be done.) The plot was essentially nonexistent besides for the text miscommunication gimmick, and the humor that this comedy-labeled film promised was horrifically stale, serving either a dick joke, a doped-up mumble of a wisecrack, or a long, painfully drawn out bit that is so unfunny it makes the shoulders clench. The movie runs surprisingly slow for all the stupid high-jinks that occur, and we are interrupted every five minutes by a new mediocre actor with dyed hair and a comfort with saying “fuck” who comes slinking in using some 2014 YouTube prank channel-esque move as their introduction, and either departs with no purpose or stays to shove a few bad jokes down our throats for good measure.
If there’s one silver lining of this failed Cheech and Chong attempt, it is a bit of a PSA that many of you need a personality outside of marijuana. I fully support weed being legal, but if too many awful screenplays are written and produced, I may have to change my mind.
