This movie will have you asking questions like, "where are we?" and, "is it ethical for white people playing non-white people to have dreadlocks?" or perhaps, "do the dinosaur-deniers have a point?" and maybe even, "how do the druid guys get any slaving done with nails that long?"

I don't think that the 'BC' in the title of this movie stands for "Bull-Crap"; but, if it did, it wouldn't be a complete stretch. This movie is like every supermodel that high-school aged teenagers fell in love with. Pretty gorgeous, if not some large percentage artificial, with all of its atributes splayed out on the surface and limited in depth... but maybe that's not fair to the supermodels.

This movie is... borderline fine. Looks pretty decent, sounds horrible, and has a plotline so weak it could for sure be confused for one of those historic dramatizations you saw at the last history museum you went to.

Come for the wooly mammthos, stay (or leave) for the janky accents and more bronzer than you shake a bone spear at.

If there is a limit to how much borderline-problematic representation of native american culture can be stuffed into a single movie, this film makes every attempt to find out. Watching this movie made me feel like I was shot into an alternate universe wherein Jonathan Taylor Thomas is a little shit (dare I say - future serial killer) and Chevy Chase is a bona-fide good, kind, soul. It made my skin crawl.

Thank the lords of nostalgia for rollerblades, the yellow Walkman (you know the one) and baggy grunge-era hoodie-forward outfits. Without them, I'm not sure that I could have endured the 'definately-not-Italian' Italian gangster, the scream-at-your-TV bad parenting, the...for some reason... actual clown, and the worst depiction of Home Alone-ing since.. well probably ever, without gouging out my eyes.

Someone please explain to me "háu" this script ever got a green light.

This movie is the third installment of the Ace Ventura franchise, wherein Ace is depressed, lets down his guard, contracts rabies from a rabid dog, and falls into a hallucinatory fever-dream psychosis, and I will die on this hill!

From the time where alt-rock bands and the second British invasion were dominating haircuts and fashion, comes a script that could only have been pitched as "too many manic, arbitrary ways to count to 23" intercut with "over-the-top 'noire' detective narrative, initially intended as parody for SNL". Come and watch a lanky white guy hump his way through the least thrilling psychological thriller possible, accompanied by bad parenting choices, an objectively a-moral wife, out of place Carrey improv, and enough plot holes to make you wonder, "How did Carey earn 23 million dollars for this hogwash - maybe I am ok at my job...".

Please, someone throw me out a window so I can develope amnesia and forget I ever saw - what I can only assume was - an early attempt at viral marketting for "23andMe".