Francis Lawrence has some undeniable craftsmanship to dispense here, which should be a given for his line of work. It's wasted on what is otherwise this tedious, clothes hanger thin whimsy, which is thoroughly pointless for its own sake and still adopts the relentlessly wrong attitude to be acknowledging and sending up its own distinct lack of importance/quality from the onset, alongside a self-defeating plot that goes and leads nowhere like a thud. Momoa, Chandler, and O'Dowd are clearly having fun as opposed to putting in irreverent showings worth a damn. None of what they were doing, lampooning about, translated into anything close to entertainment for me. As for this particular child: wouldn't mind seeing her fade swiftly into obscurity unless she learns to dial down the self-satisfied behavior in the future. 4.5/10