This doesn't feel like a movie so much as an excuse to create a few jobs. You know, like one of those Canadian tax shelter movies from the 1980s.

Tonally incoherent, Flypaper segues from moments of slapstick comedy, to deadly violence, to jokey banter with little to no regard for how an audience may actually react to what they're seeing unfold on screen. In addition to these tonal inconsistencies, the actual image looks like garbage: everything is just a hair too dark, a shade or two off of what would be - if not pleasing to look at - bearable, and everyone looks sick. Patrick Dempsey, who I've found extremely charming in films like Loverboy and In the Mood, is stuck flailing around in a pool sweat, trying his best to liven up exposition-heavy dialog.

Tim Blake Nelson and Pruitt Taylor Vince are the only people involved to come away fully unscathed: they understand the level of idiocy being played out both in front of and behind the camera, and even if the majority of their jokes are worthless, the lackadaisical charm they bring to the picture is perhaps the only consistently amusing element of this entire fiasco.

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