The Hustle: A Comedy Masterclass in Repetition

Ah, comedy—a genre as subjective as an Instagram filter. What tickles one’s funny bone might flay another’s. Enter The Hustle, the latest “girls night out” extravaganza featuring Rebel Wilson and Anne Hathaway as rivals in the grand con game. When low-brow Penny Rust (Wilson) crashes the upscale party of Josephine Chesterfield (Hathaway), they engage in an utterly original wager: robbing a clueless tech millionaire, Thomas Westerburg (Alex Sharp), to determine who gets to keep their territory. A grave matter indeed—who needs originality when you have an old-school bet?

If the storyline rings a bell, it’s because The Hustle is essentially a carbon copy of the 1988 classic Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, reimagined for a new generation that perhaps hasn’t yet experienced the joy of Steve Martin’s impeccable charm. Unless you’re a diehard fan of watching the same plot recycled, there’s little reason to sit through this remake. The only upgrades are modern updates, much like buying an avocado toast recipe when you still can’t work the toaster.

Now, for those not particularly enamored with Rebel Wilson, prepare yourself: The Hustle is like running a marathon in the world’s largest clown shoes—exhausting, ridiculous, and, at times, painful. This isn’t just a movie; it’s a one-woman show where Wilson is allowed to be as over-the-top as a piñata at a toddler’s birthday party. Instead of subverting expectations like Melissa McCarthy in Spy, Penny embodies every “fat, funny foreigner” cliché you can imagine, from pratfalls to sliding across floors like a seal on ice. If you wanted to see the same schtick recycled, you could just watch Pitch Perfect on repeat.

How much improvisation is happening? Hard to say. What is clear, however, is that the script has the depth of a kiddie pool. With three writers from the original film—Stanley Shapiro, Paul Henning, and Dale Launer—recycling their own material, it’s like watching a band play their greatest hits… but they only know two songs. Enter Jac Schaeffer, the new addition who’s here to “feminize” the script, yet somehow manages to tread water in the same shallow end.

The premise of two women conning men, while avoiding using their sexuality—at least initially—brings a semblance of sophistication. Josephine preys on male fantasies of heroism while Penny dives headfirst into catfishing with stock photos of a generic blonde. As if we needed more proof that men will buy anything as long as it looks shiny enough. The male characters are, of course, uniformly portrayed as unsuspecting dolts, most notably Thomas, who resembles a certain tech mogul with a penchant for hoodies. The plot twist reveals he’s actually a nice guy, making it feel even more like a recycled plot twist from a 90s rom-com we’ve all forced ourselves to forget.

Shockingly, as the story progresses, tension builds on who can woo Thomas first. Just when you think the film might avoid cheap tricks, it promptly dives into a shallow pool of sexual innuendo and juvenile humor. Perhaps the writers felt that turning this into a game of seduction was the depth their comedic satire needed—the result is more akin to marshmallows in hot chocolate—sweet but lacking real substance.

Let’s also talk fashion because, why not? If you intend to convince audiences that Josephine is a high-flying con artist, the costumes shouldn’t look like they came from last summer’s clearance rack. A nod to a competent costume designer like Renee Ehrlich Kalfus could have done wonders here. Instead, it appears the budget was allocated for cheap laughs—much like the script itself, which pits laziness against creativity.

In conclusion, if you’re itching for a chuckle, there are plenty of options out there that don’t involve watching a tired remake showcasing humor that plays it safe. But if you still want to witness one comedienne’s exhaustion on full display, posturing as a high-class con artist while essentially recycling slapstick, by all means, The Hustle awaits you like an unexpected tax bill. Just remember: sometimes it’s best to let the classics be—and not every trip down memory lane needs to be done wearing clown shoes.