This isn’t really a review of The Hangover Part III. Consider it more along the lines of a tip sheet or, if you must, a public service.
The first thing you might want to know is that the Todd Phillips–directed movie is no better than the rehash sequel; in fact, even though it takes off in new directions, it might be even worse than II. It's an irritating, ugly, cruel, obnoxious and cringingly unfunny flick that kicks off with the now certifiably insane man-child Alan buying and causing the reckless beheading of a giraffe (mercifully, a digital one) as well as a massive coronary in his father (Jeffrey Tambor). Are you LOLing yet? Two movies too late, the Wolfpack, consisting of Bradley Cooper, Ed Helms and Justin Bartha (all looking, variously, embarrassed or on autopilot), finally figure out that Alan is not just a drug-dispensing, deeply depressed oddball but a full-on dangerous nutjob, so they crew up to get him to an Arizona rehab facility in their minivan. From there, the road/caper movie's creative desperation becomes inescapable, what with tired plot developments like a carjack by a gangster (John Goodman) out to recoup $21 million in stolen gold, a kidnapping (guess who), a hunt for the mincing, manic cokehead Mr. Chow (Ken Jeong) and a depressing return to the hell on earth that is Las Vegas and Caesar’s Palace.
The whole nasty, violent movie—one apparently intent on killing off the series—is Alan’s story, and, again, Galifianakis is the show. He also shares a funny but pointless interlude with Melissa McCarthy as a pawnshop owner. But the entire movie is pointless and senseless. And by the way, there’s no hangover in the whole movie. Hangover die-hards probably won't listen to us, but for the rest of you: just don't. Seriously.