We're the Millers movie review (2013)

The tidy premise of "We're the Millers" could be easily tucked into one sheet of rolling paper: A small-time pot dealer (Jason Sudeikis, at his sardonic best) with a big debt to a drug lord (Ed Helms as a pinstripe-suited raging narcissist who collects marine mammals instead of sports cars) is forced to drive a monster RV over the Mexican border and smuggle two metric tons of grass into the U.S.

Knowing that a single white 30-ish male driver in grubby attire will immediately cause suspicion, Sudeikis recruits a fake family, including an overly pierced runaway girl (a forthrightly street-smart Emma Roberts) and a virginal 18-year-old latchkey kid (baby-faced Brit actor Will Poulter, a true find). As for a wife, he ropes in his contentious neighbor, a down-on-her-luck stripper, and that is where Aniston comes in. Once you get over the fact that few world-weary exotic dancers would ever possess—or afford—such a healthy Malibu Barbie glow, the actress settles in quite nicely into a role that fits her like a custom G-string. As a comedy couple, she and Sudeikis aren't exactly Cheech and Chong, but their well-matched timing and clashing attitudes often create comic sparks that erupt into laughter.

The audience will figure out pretty quickly where this road trip is heading: That the F-word-slinging fake clan will eventually bond while forming a loving and loyal family unit. Thankfully, the filmmakers keep finding unexpected detours to get there without resorting to such obvious stunts as having everyone light up joints together. Instead, most of the humor stems from this supposedly straitlaced foursome suddenly forgetting themselves and engaging in shockingly inappropriate behavior, abetted by an actual square motorhome-owning couple—the top-notch Nick Offerman and Kathryn Hahn (whose TMI dissertation on tampons is a welcome if squirm-inducing female spin on movie dirty talk)—and their sweetly innocent teen daughter.

That the most discomforting scene involves mere kissing shows admirable restraint, although one outlandish sight gag is straight out of the Farrelly Brothers' Genitalia-R-Us handbook. And the last time a Pictionary game proved this uproarious on the big screen was back when "Harry met Sally."

"Flashdance" also comes into the picture, and not just because no one appears to actually strip in the club where Aniston works. In one scene she manages to rescue her partners in crime by distracting a gang of thugs with a steamy bump-and-grind act, including a drenching shower. Needless to say, the shapely Aniston pulls it off without a hitch—even if she never actually appears without a stitch. If this gutsy performance leads to better opportunities—a remake of Demi Moore's ill-conceived "Striptease," perhaps—I might sleep better at night.

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