The stakes have never been higher.

Ashley Benson, Vanessa Hudgens, Selena Gomez and Fourth Girl (who IS that fourth girl) just want to go on spring break (“spraaaaaang breaaaaaak”), but they have no drug money or booze money or scooter money or bikini money :(. So, they pick up some hammers and squirt guns and turn into robbers (not Selena though — she’s innocent! She’s religious! Amen!). THE STAKES HAVE NEVER BEEN HIGHER.

Picture this: A corn-rowed, grillz-studded James Franco tapping a single key on his white piano, hands bloodied, cooing “I’m gonna kill my beeeest friend.” His BFF, for the record, is Gucci Mane.

Meanwhile: Boobs. Literally everywhere. The stakes, the stakes.

An extended criminal endeavor montage is scored — horribly, perfectly — by Britney Spears’s “Everytime.” You’ll laugh; you’ll cry; you might see through time and space (I did all three).

What is “Spring Breakers” about? Nothing. And yet, everything.

Never before have I been so disturbed that my only reaction was to laugh and laugh and laugh and drop all of my popcorn because. I. Can’t. Stop. Laughing. “Shhhh,” say fellow moviegoers, who apparently are taking this all much more seriously than I am.

The longest threesome ever in the history of cinema happens. It’s more confusing than sexy (the film’s logline).

For most of the movie, I’m torn between wanting to make a list of every overtly male-gazey shot, wanting to leave the theater to go get chicken tenders and wanting to take body shots off of Vanessa Hudgens.

Don’t see this movie sober. You will hate yourself.

In the (probably paraphrased) words of T.M.: “I feel kind of down. It’s like real life isn’t enough. I’m gonna go sleep on this.”



“Spring Breakers” is the best movie I’ve seen in forever and I can’t feel my face. All of a sudden I understand Dubstep, and Rustie is better than he’s ever been. Slasherr. James Franco is Riff Raff, wearing silver grillz. Aliens. So here’s the deal …

My two best friends arrived in Ann Arbor unexpectedly on Saturday. I was supposed to see “Spring Breakers” then, but after six hours and eight craft beers at Ashley’s and two bottles of wine at a house party, I didn’t feel very up to the prospect of sitting in a theater. I skipped the show. Sacrificed the later for the now. #SpringBreakBitches. Now it’s Monday night and I need to see this crazy movie drunk out of my mind. I hope future employers don’t read this.

Class gets out at 9:00. Two shots of Mango Burnett’s, two of Sailor’s, Jameson and a Honey Wheat beer. Lez go. Hit the 9:45 show. Leather flask of 100% Agave just for kicks. After all, it’s spring break (right?). No, it’s Monday (night).

My D.D. hero Brian K. drives me to the theater (D.T. tags along — after some shots of gin). In line at the theater, D.T. whispers, “Is that Tim Hardaway behind us?” I turn around — HOLY SHIT IT IS. Be cool. We want to whisper “Good luck against KU; kick that Withey bro’s ass” but we restrain ourselves. GRIII is there as well. They are seeing some movie that starts with an “O. ” Could it be “Olympus is Falling?” I don’t know; I’m beyond reading things.

Neon tits everywhere. That’s the plot summary of “Spring Breakers.” Harmony has made something wonderfully dark, something that is right next to and so far away from everything that is the American Youth. Skrillex. Guns. Gucci Mane. Bikinis. I need to go to sleep. Hopefully I won’t have glow-in-the-dark nightmares. #InMitchMcGaryWeTrust #BeatKU



OK, so watching “Spring Breakers” while totally, stupidly sober goes like this: It’s like being part of a “Harlem Shake” video, only you’re at the way back, no one can see you and you sort of awkwardly stand there, waving at the camera. And the whole time, the weird guy up front in a neon bikini keeps seductively whispering “spring break forever, bitches.”

The crisis started happening midway through the movie. Right about when Faith finally leaves (let’s face it, she wasn’t ready for spring break lyfe), I asked myself what I was watching … and had no answers. There’s really no plot other than getting wasted, grinding on bitches, boobs, killing bitches, boobs — and while the girls took on their roles eagerly, I was like, “Say ‘spring break’ again. Say it.”

I want to love it. And a part of me does — the weird part that watches hours of music videos on end. But this is not life. This is nothing like my spring break! I don’t even own a neon bikini — should I be allowed to live? I’m so far away from the spring breakers that I felt uncool watching it. I felt as if Faith’s grandma came along on the trip, and that grandma was me.

But, yes. OK. It’s going to be one of those movies I download and watch at midnight on a Wednesday, pretending I too can drive off in a Lambo after killing a drug kingpin.


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