Here's a film review that will be criticized by the producers if they catch it on Twitter or Facebook.  Possibly the grossest, crudest movie so far in the decade, Girls Trip appalls with its vulgarity and over-the-top bad taste. Director Malcolm D. Lee is responsible for the mess of these proceedings.

In its favor: It features many normal-sized and plus-size women, and numerous hunky black men.

All of the featured women are beyond crass, overtly slutty without afterthought or apology, lacking in any modicum of reserve or dignity, filthy of mouth, and absent any sense of decorum or shame.

This is not to say that this declining civilization did not feature an audience of hyena-cackling theater-goers who found the bilge worthy of hee-haws.

We will admit that the largely boisterous audience was having a whoop-de-doo raucous time of it, yelling and guffawing at each dismal descent into grossness, such as frontal nudity of an elderly man seeking prostitution services from our four frontrunner "trippy girls."  There is a zip-line section in N'Orleans that defies belief, and the same crude device is utilized twice, as if once were not  more than enough.  Same with the naked older man: exposes himself twice to the girls, the camera, and us.

The language is a dumpster dive of fast-spat-out, vernacularized gutterese, ugliness, and salacious verbiage and sexualization without mercy.  If you don't go animal two-backs instantly, or as soon as you pick up a man with knees and so on, you are a non-person, invisible in this cast of characters and their coteries.  There's no room for modesty, reticence, or caution among that crew.

Anthropologically, the film is a boys' night out, with girls replacing the testosterone.  Following up on the meme, the men in the movie are moderate, polite, restrained (mostly), and mindful of such things as whether the woman ogling and making moves against them is married or not.  Turnabout from the decades-old norm.  And like rowdy boys' road-trip romps, there are any number of catfights, insult-fests, and scabrous assaults on women moving on another's man, and overheard abbing.  An entire film made of Jerry Springer outtakes, almost.

Though it is without question not a film that evoked from us a single laugh or smile, it will sadly enough be a box office winner for a few weeks from its deplorable (yes – self-selected) base audience.

One surmises that the cinema must serve all its spectroscopic potential viewers.  But seeing the definitive lowest of the low pander to that crowd is depressing.  Rare are the producers who brave the muck-making proctologies of Hollyweird to make a fine or uplifting entertainment.

But there is hope: Baa Baa Land.

Comes now an eight-hour film without stars or script.  There is no car chase.  There are no guns.  It is only minutes shorter than Andy Warhol's infamous eight-hour edifice redux on the Empire State Building.

The entire film is long, lovingly takes on a bunch of sheep, with the only sound being the bleat of the woolly progenitors of our sweaters and better socks.

Dumb, you say?

Maybe it's better than all those little nightly capsules with the enticing advertisements many people take to fall into Morpheus faster than would happen naturally.  Watching only a few minutes of these natural followers (heard of "sheeple"? those who react without protest to any prod...) will send you off to sweet slumber.  No chemicals needed.

Probably one of the nicest ideas to come along the cinematic highway in quite some time.

And we're not sheepish about declaring – that's not half-baaad.