I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell
Directed by Bob Gosse
Runtime: 105 min.
I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, the film adaptation of Tucker Max’s notoriously infantile and incredibly popular tell-all memoir about his fratboy sexcapades is not immediately repugnant. It may make you lose feeling in your upper extremities, thanks to its never-ending stream of proudly misogynistic repartee, but at this point, it’s not yet worthy of your ire. The film only becomes truly insipid when it makes a cloying, half-hearted attempt to show that Max and his buddies, who go on a debauch at a fabled strip club, have learned the error of their ways and now have greater respect for women and themselves. Yes, I’m sure that’s why the film expects us to laugh at Max’s avatar when he shits his pants and fills two toilets with diarrhea—because it taught him a lesson.
While the naughty misadventures of the manchildren of The Hangover are sanitized to the point of appealing to the lowest common denominator, Tucker Max, who co-wrote the screenplay, really lived the frat boy’s dream—drinking like a fish and screwing like a rabbit—and is now all too happy to have another opportunity to revel in his raunchier-than-thou anecdotes.
Max’s wingmen, especially Drew, spend so much time hogging the spotlight and laughing at their own bad behavior that when it comes time for Max to learn his lesson and grab the spotlight back from them, it’s impossible to take him seriously as either a bad boy or a penitent. Sure, the film is despicable for celebrating bad behavior and then apologizing with all of the conviction of a lapsed alcoholic that’s now being paid to get drunk and tell us about the bad ol’ days.
What really made my blood boil was the knowledge that Max is trying to be liked for being despicable. “You guys totally deserve it,” he tells a thankful Dan and his wife on their wedding day, knowing full well that he can keep screwing people over and be loved for it. You can do your best Howard Beale impersonation now.






