Critics reviews

The packed audience I saw it with roared at every intimation of ooey-gooey homoeroticism, one of which seemed to fly at us about every thirty seconds. Disguised as a takedown of bros-before-hos frat life, Neighbors is just another reaffirmation of that mentality's depressing centrality in our culture.

Whenever Mac and Kelly join the frat brothers in their wild bacchanals, Stoller goes to town stylistically, letting these scenes play out with fever-dream abandon. You sense the young couple's regret that these days are behind them; every party feels like the Final Party. The energy drops, though, whenever Neighbors resorts to typical patched-together improv scenes, cutting back and forth between two actors riffing on each other.

[The] barely intergenerational beefing would be all too meta for this roster of Apatow-adjacent players and filmmakers were the movie not so doggedly magnanimous, at least so far as its profuse male characters are concerned. Not for nothing do two characters spend the majority of an entire scene spitballing variations on the maxim, "bros before hoes."

After a shaky start, Neighbors blossoms with inspired visual gags in (excellent) poor taste. It never feels too dark, and that's largely due to the sweetness of Rogen and Byrne. They have a winning chemistry, and their predicament riffs neatly on the challenge of leaving their own youth behind. But the real star of the show is Efron, who relishes a chance to shine as a borderline-psychotic party boy.

For every silicone cock that's forced into a man's mouth, for every casual drug reference or tedious nod to McLovin's legendary member, there is greater truth and insight concerning the human condition here than you might reasonably expect from a foul-mouthed mainstream comedy. It may even resonate with you on a deeper level, but only if you're able to suppress the image of Zac Efron's strutting nipples long enough to allow a moment of quiet reflection.