Georgia Rule: Critic Reviews

Lohan hits a true note of spiteful princess narcissism. Unfortunately, it's the only note the film allows her to play.

Georgia Rule, directed by Garry Marshall from a script by Mark Andrus, swerves and spins, taking its predictable plot in some surprising directions.

Georgia Rule doesn't make you feel good; it makes you queasy.

Combines battleship actresses of the Steel Magnolias variety, fall-down-go-boom comedy that was obsolete in the '30s, Lindsay Lohan's cleavage and intergenerational fondling just for kicks.

Georgia Rule is a bad idea dreadfully executed -- On Golden Pond with fellatio jokes and whimsical incest melodrama and Fonda playing her dad (who, more and more, she eerily resembles).

Three noisy women and a worn-out premise rattle around in Georgia Rule, an incoherent dramedy of rampant parental insufficiency from director Garry Marshall.

Misguided at best and repellent at worst.

Certain words should be reserved for special occasions. 'Abysmal' is one of them, and Georgia Rule is as special as such occasions get.

There's little gussied up in this surprisingly tart mother-child-grandchild reunion picture, written by Mark Andrus.

It's a shame Lohan's best work to date is bogged down in a film that wants to be in the same league as Terms of Endearment but is only marginally better than Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.

Maybe Georgia Rule should be required viewing for Paris Hilton during her term in the slammer. But not for us.

The confused script trades in such heavy topics as alcoholism and child sexual abuse, but every dramatic scene plays like one of those schmaltzy Happy Days moments that inevitably drew a big 'Awwwwww!' from the studio audience.

The American public likes nothing better than a tragedy with a happy ending, William Dean Howells observed. But Marshall so cautiously downplays the tragic elements of his plot that the sweetness and light left a sour taste in my mouth.

Opening with a raunchy but light comic tone, the story veers into queasy territory.

Director Garry Marshall's comedy-drama suffers from an unfortunate role reversal. The comedy is stunningly unfunny, while the drama is sometimes disturbingly funny.

Time for a new book by Jane Fonda, and this time I expect a full chapter on how she got snookered into doing Georgia Rule.

The subject matter is grim, the relationships are gnarled, the worldview is bleak, and, at any given moment, you suspect someone's going to be hit with a pie.

Do not take your mom to Georgia Rule unless she's Roseanne Barr. You may expect a three-generational chick flick, but what you get is a child-rape comedy.

Well-acted, sometimes amusing but flat-out tone-deaf.

You'd think that decree No. 1 for a movie about rules would be to know exactly what kind of picture you're making and selling. Georgia Rule fails that basic test, and a whole lot of other ones besides.

Not to excuse her apparent lack of professionalism, but can you blame Lohan for showing up to work in bad shape?

It's Fonda who represents the movie's real lost opportunity. Now that she's back, which filmmaker is going to win the prize for figuring out how to put her gifts, and her looks, to use?

The central problem with the movie isn't that it deals with several hot-button topics, but that it addresses them with a shocking lack of emotional honesty.

This strained dramedy falls well outside of the director's comfort level.

In the end, it's just another concoction of unbelievable characters doing unbelievable things, and telling us nothing we haven't heard before.