The Guardian

What most most enlivens the film is how the horror of the predicament exposes the cracks in the central friendship. Dictating social plans above water becomes insisting dominance over life-or-death decisions in the caves and while the writing could afford to be far spikier and more consistent (Max is both in charge of every detail yet confesses that she is allergic to logistics), it adds extra gristle to the finale.

This is a strange film in some ways. It is watchable and entertaining, but its feelgood trajectory is compromised by what we know of the author.

It’s a strange and riveting moment in pop and political history.

It’s an entertaining spectacle, but really without the novelty of movie-iterations like the more experimental Spider-Verse animations. A more radical reboot is needed.

The sheer creepiness of Trump is what is so striking.

There’s an inherent and refreshing novelty to simply revisiting this friend group having aged up another decade or so, and the theater-worthy animation provides any additional glow-up missing from the good-enough story.

It’s a nasty piece of work. Cheerfully nasty, in fact, as it goes for black comedy laughs by bumping off characters in grisly drop-a-dumbbell-on-your-face scenarios. But it’s not-so-nice nasty as well, by being smirking and unpleasant; the kind of film that makes a joke out of the overweight kid puffing on an inhaler.

The meta-joke about an actor trapped inside his own midlife-crisis character doesn’t merely fall flat; it underscores the movie’s fatal flaw: 72 Hours would have far more potential if Hart weren’t in it at all. The insecurities that once made him relatable aren’t comic any more. They’re sad.

It is a movie with flesh-and-blood intensity.

There’s some funny stuff here in this engagingly silly sports comedy from producer-star Jake Johnson about the world of pickleball, and how this (allegedly) facile pseudo-tennis game for children and old people threatens to infantilise and dumb down the world of tennis itself.