Moore and Stewart’s consideration of familial friction acerbated by disease nearly saves the film from its banal Lifetime-movie execution.
The concluding season is a mostly redeeming finale for a show most people hate to love and love to hate.
The real stars of the series are the misfits who circle Nancy’s erratic orbit.
If Weeds hopes to survive, it needs to fix its one-note performances.
The film is a cross between Greenberg and The Answer Man, with a few extra helpings of quirk.
I wonder what the housing prices in Agrestic are like these days.
Weeds works best when it focuses on the first two syllables of its designated genre: “dramedy.”
Barry Sonnenfeld directs the film with the same amount of wit and style that characterized Wild Wild West.
There’s a sense that the writers of Weeds are as lazy as their main character, that they understand her as little as she seems to understand herself.
It’s bad from beginning to end, and like Jake, it’s totally full of itself.