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We've gotten to the point in streaming content shot on cheap digital mediums that we really have to start asking ourselves what we're looking at.

There's no question that the creators and executives behind Hulu's "Summer of 69" would like you to believe that what you're watching is a movie. I mean, it has a trailer, a poster, and they've even succeeded in getting movie critics from Variety, the Hollywood Reporter, Roger Ebert, and The NY Times to review it as a movie. (A movie that they all agree isn't very good, but inexplicably stop short of telling you to avoid at all costs.)

But is it a movie? I've seen a few and I really don't think so, and I'll tell you why. First of all, from its opening frame, this *thing* hits the television (or computer...or smartphone) with all the cinematic splendor of an 4K episode of Malcolm in the Middle. From there it introduces you to a lead actor so dull and devoid of charisma that you begin to long for ANY young sitcom star from the 80's or 90's (all of whom were told that TV actors couldn't make films, yes, the Hollywood talent pool was once that deep.) THEN at exactly nine minutes into the "movie," Hulu (which you pay a subscription to watch) hits you with your first commercial break, which is a 60-second ad for a pharmaceutical weight management drug called, "Wegovy." (One can't help but take note that the actors in this (horrible) commercial are equally talented to the ones in the "movie.")

Two more thirty second ads later and you're back in the absurd world of Jillian Bell's directorial debut, where our hero, Abby, stumbles into a double-wide strip club and sees a stripper named Santa Monica (SNL's Chloe Fineman) performing on stage in shiny boy shorts and a bikini top. Hey! Don't say you haven't been warned, a loud disclaimer at the beginning told you this was "for mature audiences only." Nevermind that literally ANY college co-eds Instagram page is vastly sexier than anything you'll see at this junior high school imagining of a strip club in the year 2025.

Should I bother to get into the plot? Why should I? The writers didn't. None of it makes any logical sense, and it's very obvious neither the filmmakers or execs could be bothered to care. But by now I'm sure you already know that the title (chosen to intentionally piss off anyone who ever loved the Bryan Adams song of the same name) is based on the fact that Abby wants to learn how to perform mutual oral sex on her longtime school crush, Max, (played by 26 year old Matt Cornett), and delusionally believes that if she could only learn this (basic and self explanatory) sex position she'd win his affection, despite her complete lack of sex appeal, charisma, intelligence or self-esteem.

The stripper agrees to teach Abby this skill because, even though she hates her job and complains about only making $82 at her last shift, she's desperate to save the club and help her mentally challenged boss (an unfunny Paula Pell) pay off her $20,000 loan. Is this a movie? Well, it's certainly clear that Jillian Bell and her two co-writers have SEEN some movies. Does that count? I mean they steal from nearly every purported teen sex comedy the three of them could brainstorm in the week or so I assume it took them to write this uh...content. By the time the next Wegovy commercial hits at the 24 minute mark, you're asking yourself how much more you'll be able to take, and when the...uh...thing...comes back and immediately launches into a joke about Abby's breath being so bad that Santa Monica asks if she might have eaten "poo" for breakfast, if you're like me time's up, the question has been answered.

Is this a movie? No. It's not. If this was a movie it would have been written by a screenwriter. If this was a movie if would have been made by a filmmaker. If this was a movie it would have been developed and earned a green light from executives who valued their reputations. Everything about "Summer of 69" is bad. The writing, the casting, the acting, the cinematography, the MUSIC. Risky Business was Gone With the Wind by comparison. Porky's was Lawrence of fkng Arabia compared to this piece of garbage. Everyone involved is a hack that should be embarrassed, but they won't be. They don't know enough to be. They only know that the people at Hulu are satisfied enough with what they delivered to subject their subscribers to it, and that their paychecks didn't bounce. They'll all be called on again to deliver another one just like this. Why? Because the people who run Hollywood in 2025 hate movies, and they hate working with the people who love movies because those people care too much, and caring costs money.

As a person who loves movies, trust me, if you love movies too, even a little bit, you'll avoid this imposter at all costs.

...we can tell the truth about this childish work of fiction. It's as though James Mangold ran his Dylan idea through the same generative AI he used to make the dreadfully overrated "Walk the Line." I won't get into the historical inaccuracies because there are far too many of them, and the Timmy sycophants don't care, so let's just focus on the shameless Oscar campaign and the gross slurping of the supremely unlikable Chalamet by his 61 year old director, who knows better. Learning early Dylan songs on guitar and harmonica does not take 5 1/2 years to do. And being able to do so is a part of the job, not a bonus gifted to the audience by a dedicated actor. You MUST do this to play Dylan. It's the lowest possible bar. Then, to glaze the guy for NOT trying to sound like him or move like him or do ANYTHING like him, is some slick reverse psychology by a brilliant PR team - because let's keep it real, there is NO Dylan in this performance. None. If you know, you know. And if you don't, I feel sorry for you, because Mangold has stolen the joy of discovering Dylan away from a generation of kids who would've gotten there on their own. He gives them a bitter, angry, opportunist - played by an already jaded 29 year old man (not a kid, despite the desperate attempts to portray Chalamet as one endlessly). Chalamet, as an actor, has one gear. His voice sounds the same in every film he makes...his singing voice sounds the same as his speaking voice. He's bland, he's dull, he's dead in the eyes. I could go on and on. It's my hope that people will take the time to discover the real genius that is Bob Dylan and forget this forgettable exercise in Oscar-bait as quickly as we've forgotten "Walk the Line," which was the day after the Oscars in 2006. Go see Dylan in concert, kids. Watch the many documentaries on his life and work. Cleanse yourselves of this filth.

Watching this movie one gets the impression that its characters mirror the way that Netflix views its subscriber base: a sad, slovenly, segment of Americans who aren't enjoying much about their lives, spouses, kids, jobs, friends or anything else. It's an unhappy movie for unhappy people, and it's very unlikely that jokes about female facial hair, bodily fluids, and pregnancy gross-out humor is going to cheer them up.

It's hard to even imagine why a writer would sit down to write something like this, or why an actor would sign on - other than to receive a paycheck. And that's the saddest part of all. The people who made this movie and the executives who green-lit it will all return to their homes in the Hollywood Hills, while the average Netflix subscriber will slink off to bed feeling a little more depressed and jaded than they did before. It's not what anyone needs in today's world. Netflix doesn't care about entertainment, they've admitted that. They make second-screen content to play in the background while you scroll your phone. And that's exactly what this is.