It is light and slight and utterly forgettable as soon as it’s over. It is the kind of movie you watch on an airplane—perhaps on the way to someplace luxurious and relaxing like the South of France, the film’s setting—while falling in and out of naps.
It’s not terrible. It’s not anything, really, except an excuse for Anne Hathaway to swan about in a series of clingy dresses and fake accents and Rebel Wilson to pratfall and deadpan her way from one outlandish scheme to the next. Each actress seems totally committed to the silliness and physicality of her role. Unfortunately, they also seem to be acting in separate movies from each other and never find the chemistry or groove necessary to make this kind of material truly sing.
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