bad moms

It would be great if “The Hangover” screenwriters-turned-directors Jon Lucas and Scott Moore would leave moms well enough alone. After the one-two punch of 2016’s “Bad Moms” and 2017’s “A Bad Moms Christmas” (both bad comedies), they’ve returned with “Spa Weekend,” which isn’t about bad moms but good moms who could stand to be a little bad.

If you’re not sure how much misbehavior a few friends can get up to at a luxury resort spa, you haven’t met Isla Fisher’s Mel. Yes, “Spa Weekend” is a plate of reheated “Wedding Crashers” nachos, because no one stirs up cheerful chaos like the spirited Fisher. Her Mel brings a delightfully vulgar joie de vivre into the over-scheduled lives of her lifelong friends: workaholic lawyer Jane (Leslie Mann), bitter divorceé Coco (Michelle Buteau) and people-pleasing pushover Sophie (Anna Faris).

“Spa Weekend” is built around the same fearsome foursome ethos as shows like “Sex and the City” and “Girls,” with several different character types and lots of available friction between them. More recently, golden-years comedies like “Book Club,” “80 for Brady” and way too many movies starring the late Diane Keaton have sent friend groups on journeys that have them reevaluating relationships and life goals. Romantic, criminal and naughty hijinks ensue and bonds are tested — and ultimately reinforced. Roll the blooper reel.

Mel might be a disaster with her loud mouth and impolite antics, but her over-the-top meddling does her buddies some good. She helps uptight Jane hook up with a hunky yoga instructor (Adam Demos), gets Sophie fired from her toxic job and lures Coco’s ex-husband Roger (Dominic Ona-Ariki) to the resort for a little reconciliation. Her friends are furious, but while they might not get what they want (relaxation), they get what they need (liberation). All it took was some coke and strippers (Lucas and Moore have a bizarre fixation on moms and male strippers).

You know what? Fine. It’s true that working moms often put themselves last and “Spa Weekend” is an argument for them to come first. It’s a film about embracing the craziest friends because they bring excitement to an otherwise boring and overscheduled life. All of these things are true. They’re just executed here with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. In case we didn’t get it, these themes and lessons are spoken out loud by Jane in big declarative speeches.

One of the most distracting things about “Spa Weekend” is its uncanny geography. It’s set in Los Angeles but the cafés and shops are obviously not local and the worst, most dated stock L.A. traffic footage can’t cover that up.

They drive what seems to be about 45 minutes to the resort, through wooded forests on windy roads, and arrive in a tropical location overlooking miles of white sandy beach. At one point, Jane claims they’re 100 miles away from home. Ain’t no way this is Encinitas. Nothing about it makes sense until the credits roll and you learn the film was shot entirely in Queensland, Australia. But if one’s thinking about the geography that much, it means the story isn’t all that compelling.

Call it nitpicking but it’s indicative of how much care and craft — or how little — goes into a movie like this, aimed at female audiences. Much like the “Bad Moms” movies, “Spa Weekend” isn’t insightful, isn’t interesting and isn’t funny. It’s condescending and hacky and the humor always aims for the lowest common denominator. Please don’t expect me to laugh at the goats from goat yoga rampaging through a hotel lobby or a high-speed golf cart chase. Guess what? Mel has brought a suitcase full of dildos.

Worse than tired gags, we don’t get a sense of who these women really are in relationship to themselves or other women. We only know them through the prism of men: Jane lusts after Yoga Dude, Coco rages at Roger, Sophie is bullied by her boss. We know nothing about them outside of their superficial signifiers.

That’s why Fisher’s Mel feels so radical. She might be a grifter and a liar (a vastly underexplored subplot) but she has fully decentered men — so hard that no rule of polite society can hold her. If that’s a disaster, sign me up. But please don’t let Lucas and Moore make more comedies for women. They can stick to the frat houses and bachelor parties they’re used to.