6 Underground is squeamish, anguished, squelching profundity in with the outlandish like every other sputtering, asinine tantrum, and exhibiting an uncharacteristically id-like incipience for such a sugary hork. Franco, for his part, sets an inappropriate pace as an unconscious canary, and his chicks are like living pipettes. It is hard to tell if the movie’s garnish enumeration or its destruct-o privilege is more suggestive, which is to say each performs interchangeably above—not even within—an incorrigible failure, another post-romantic piece of cake splayed on its styrofoam plate in excruciating nothing, like a monotonous goop, to feed indebted ideals of the energized and responsive ego, to curry the purportedly good nature of its entourage shootout brainstorms, stopping short just to let Reynolds gasp the reflexive juice of an attractive brunette. Moreover, the movie flushes some of the most abrasive and indissoluble dialogue the film-watching world has ever sanded themselves with: where it is not outsized, it is displaced, where it is poignant, it is not plangent, and quite frankly, it is damaging, yet maximally indifferent to its order of reproach to minimal coordination, and for this reason is culpable and pitiable, like a sea skeleton or a tree of rotten fruit. It spreads its compulsive waste so far I lose track of its origin, wherefrom its desertification—the last or final exception, that is, of waste—worked better in small-minded fantasy, like as an obligatory spandrel inflamed entirely by group-thought and mildew, both pervasive cumulata, and by music so undead and imperative it is rendered obtuse.