The Douglas clan obviously found therapeutic value in having son Michael star opposite stricken dad Kirk, but experiencing their multigenerational vanity project is like suffering anew through one of those vapid early-'80s family comedies we all thought we had to watch when we first subscribed to HBO. The younger Douglas proves as smarmy as ever in the role of a crusading lawyer who's in the soup at home; poor Kirk, meanwhile, is all but incomprehensible as his cantankerous, stroke-survivor papa. Some folderol about nose rings and pot busts is the "youthful" balance to glib explorations of dialysis and cremation. Sheer torture.
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