I've always liked Paul Feig's sense of humour, which gels well with McCarthy's self-deprecating line delivery. The spy genre is no stranger to satirical treatment, of course, and all of the usual tropes are here. The film's novelty rests in showing that women of a certain weight can kick ass too, while the men are idiots from top to bottom (casting Jason Statham as a clueless, bumbling CIA agent is richly against type). I enjoyed it for a laugh, though it overstays its welcome by twenty minutes.

One good scene: McCarthy's character getting her James Bond-esque gadgets.

A coming-of-age for twenty- and thirty-somethings still figuring it out. This movie is about things—relationships, finding purpose, deciding on children, modern feminism, family ties, dying—without the contours of a strict plotline. Thankfully, the strong performers and writing made me care about the characters. Touches of Fellini-esque whimsy along the way. I could have done without the final little twist of coincidence, though.

One great scene: On a park bench, Julie's ex, dying of cancer, lamenting how he fixates on the past not out of nostalgia but to assuage his fear of death. Good writing.