If you’ve seen one "friends on a trip gone wrong" movie, you’ve essentially seen them all. The latest entry in this exhausted genre is Spa Weekend, a film that relies so heavily on a decade-old comedy playbook that it feels less like a fresh story and more like a collection of outtakes from better movies.
Jon Lucas and Scott Moore, the duo who found lightning in a bottle with The Hangover and Bad Moms, seem to think that gathering a powerhouse cast—Isla Fisher, Leslie Mann, Anna Faris, and Michelle Buteau—is enough to carry a script that’s clearly running on fumes. Honestly, they’re wrong. You can’t just throw talented comedians into a luxury resort and expect magic if the foundation is made of tired clichés and predictable gags. Don't forget to check out our previous article on this related article.
The problem with paint-by-numbers comedy
The setup is aggressively familiar. Jane (Leslie Mann), a high-strung lawyer, takes a long-overdue break with her friends Coco (Michelle Buteau) and Sophie (Anna Faris). Their goal? Relaxation. Their reality? The arrival of Mel (Isla Fisher), the friend who functions as a walking, talking disaster zone.
We’ve seen this archetype a thousand times. The “wild card” character is supposed to inject chaos into a sterile environment, but here, the chaos feels artificial. Watching Mel disrupt a yoga class or crash a golf cart doesn't feel like a spontaneous burst of humor. It feels like a checked box on a studio list of "R-rated comedy requirements." To read more about the context here, Variety offers an informative summary.
The script treats its characters like sketches rather than human beings. Michelle Buteau, who is arguably the most grounded performer here, does the heavy lifting, giving her character actual stakes and a discernible arc. But while she’s trying to navigate a divorce and genuine emotional growth, the film constantly yanks the rug out from under her to pivot to another low-effort gag about bodily functions or awkward hookups.
When the cast is better than the script
Let’s be clear: this isn't a failure of acting. Isla Fisher is fully committed to the role of the chaotic friend, even when the dialogue gives her absolutely nothing of substance to work with. Anna Faris, a comedic genius who knows exactly how to milk a line for every drop of absurdity, is relegated to playing the "dumb blonde" trope—a massive waste of her specific talents.
It’s painful to watch performers of this caliber struggle to make dead-on-arrival dialogue feel alive. There’s a scene between Fisher and Faris that should have been the heart of the movie—a quiet, character-driven moment that mirrors the intensity of real friendship. Instead, it’s wedged between sequences of "extreme" behavior that fall flat. It’s like watching an expert chef try to cook a five-star meal using nothing but stale bread and ketchup.
The curse of the derivative genre
Why do we keep getting these films? There’s a specific formula that keeps cropping up: take four women, give them a stressful life event, throw in a weekend getaway, and add a heavy dose of "empowerment" that usually involves getting drunk and making bad decisions.
Spa Weekend doesn't just borrow from this genre; it lives in its shadow. It’s a cousin to Bad Moms, but without the sharp, cynical bite that made that movie work. It’s trying to be a buddy comedy, but it’s missing the most important part of any good buddy movie: authentic, messy, believable chemistry.
The directors seem obsessed with the idea of a wild weekend without understanding the emotional beats required to make us care when things fall apart. They fall back on raunchy humor as a safety net, but when the jokes don't land, the movie just feels loud, frantic, and ultimately hollow.
Is it worth your time?
If you’re looking for a background movie to watch while you’re folding laundry, sure. The cast is charismatic enough to keep you from turning it off immediately. But if you’re hoping for the next Bridesmaids or a comedy that actually has something new to say about female friendship in your 50s, this isn't it.
The movie clocks in at around 90 minutes, which is its only real saving grace. It doesn't overstay its welcome. However, it also doesn't leave any lasting impression. By the time the credits roll, you’ll have forgotten most of the "shenanigans" you just witnessed.
Instead of chasing the ghost of The Hangover, filmmakers need to start trusting that audiences are smart enough to want more than just another "girls gone wild" resort flick. We want character studies. We want real humor that stems from personality, not just situational accidents. We want something that feels written by someone who actually knows how real people talk to each other.
Stop settling for movies that treat talented women like accessories for bad jokes. Skip the theater on this one and save your energy for something with an actual pulse.
