This review may contain spoilers. I can handle the truth.

A putrid indie air ball that amalgamates The Office and the already-horrendous Garden State. Undeniable evidence of Krasinski’s behind-camera lack of stamina.

An astonishing Dickensian tone poem. The most moving and accomplished installment of not only its trilogy, but its ruinous genre.

Ascend and surmount the insurmountable.

Little more than an excuse for Stuckmann to fellate his idols and declare his alienation with the studio system. Not a single joke lands, neither in dialogue nor in the props that beg for attention in the cluttered background. Both leads are disposable, predictably peppy rom-com airheads.

Immediately, we realize we’re watching a solid content creator beg for validation. One of his first contributions to the medium he’s made a living criticizing is a plainly desperate failure.