When I feel my age wearing me down, or the exhalations of the newspaper worrying me, a breezy comedy makes me feel better. Movies like “Spa Weekend” (Black Bear), showing now at the Montrose Playhouse, are here to stay. They deliver the “Friends”-like vibe promised by the cinematic poster; they cherry-pick a specific fantasy reachable for many; they stick to a linear plot; and they focus on one clear target audience. “We’re women, and from the second we’re born we’re told we have to be nice to everyone.”
For one reason or another, “super-close” Jane, Coco, and Sophie are feeling gloomy and anxious and ground down. Perching in the kind of tea shop which hangs chalk blackboards on whitewashed walls and plates round tables with piles of puffed-up scones, Jane and Coco brood over the troubles of the world. Sophie bristles along. “I have exactly four minutes before my boss needs me back,” she says, “so can we jump right in?” How about a spa weekend to mark Jane’s birthday? “There’s no way I can go away for an entire weekend,” Sophie says, “my schedule’s crazy!” But the last time Jane had a massage was after her recent mammogram; and Coco identified the perfect place beforehand. It’s decided. What about quarrelsome Mel, the fourth friend? “No, she’s just a lunatic,” Coco says. “We’re going to a spa; not Vegas.”
By the half-way point, the filmmakers have etched four likeable women. Character is cropped within tight brackets of screenplay. Take Jane, “buried in work for the last six months.” When she is asked out on a date by a fellow lawyer, Jane creates a clear-cut picture over a couple of tight lines. “When’s good for you?” the suitor asks. “I can’t do this weekend,” Jane says, “my son has soccer; my dad is getting hip surgery; July nineteenth?” “You mean three months from now?” “The joys of being a single mom.” Her life, dispatched. “You know what,” the suitor says, “if something opens up give me a call.” Moments later, she exposes her father as a fretful man with too much free time: “The doctor knows more about medicine than the guy on YouTube.”
Coco joint-parents. The ex-husband returns the children after his weekend. “Mommy,” one of the children asks, “why are you always so mad?“ Coco flares. “Did you put them up to this?” she asks the ex. “Have you thought about, you know, going for therapy?” he replies. “Are you calling me an angry Black woman?” The film’s best gags skulk around Coco’s jealous belief that her ex’s new belle is too old: “Velcro sneakers”; “Barbara Bush”; “hard candies”; “did your really old girlfriend fall and break her hip?”
“Namaste,” the resort’s receptionist says. “May I offer you a hibiscus water or a complementary glass of champagne?” The pool is filled with “alkaline water,” their “serenity villa” with “fancy lotions and ointments.” How about the “guided meditation”—a “one-hour mental cleanse led by our guru-slash-general-manager Shanti” (a rich, blonde, British woman)? But no, there’s Kai, the yoga teacher. “Would you ladies like to sign up for an outdoor yoga class?” their golf-cart driver asks. “Yes!” they yell in unison.
Mel appears unaware that Coco considers her “totally insane” and “the friend we don’t like.” “In female groups,” Mel says after popping up later, “there’s always one woman that all the other women secretly can’t stand. How great that we aren’t like that.” Her latest scheme is “reverse crypto.” “What is that?” Sophie asks. “I don’t know but I put all my money in it now. I’m just too embarrassed to ask.” She peddles “Chinese Ozempic.” But her narrative function is to say out loud what the others say with their eyes. “Here’s that hot yoga teacher that was checking out Jane before,” she says, calling him over. “Magic Mike! Let’s see your big dong. Dude, relax, no one gives a shit about yoga. Obviously [Jane’s] on the old side but she’s got a porno body.” Kai is stunned but Mel isn’t done. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars to f*** my friend.” “This has been batshit crazy,” Kai says.
“This hotel hires good-looking Australian guys to flirt with all the women,” Jane says. “I find it rather insulting. It’s not gonna work on me, Crocodile Dundee.” Kai’s cute. “I started working here and it’s just such a cushy gig, you know,” he says. “I can help you fully relax if you want.” Oh. “Does that line actually work here?” Jane asks. “I’m very sorry [the hand massage] had no effect on you,” Kai says. “Do you wanna continue the massage back at my place?” “I don’t know what he did to me,” Jane says to the others, “but my back feels better.” Of course “I’m not free until July nineteenth” because “I have two kids; I have a sick dad; I have a job.”
“Namaste,” Shanti says, “and welcome. Please join us in the circle of abundance.” The guided meditation. The class is to inscribe their fears—“I’m fearful that no one will ever find me attractive”; “I’m fearful that I will never find love”; “I’m fearful of how out of control I feel”—on scraps of “parchment.” Then Shanti will “burn them in this African fire pot that Bono got me.” Mel wrecks the room and the feng shui at once; Shanti flashes her distrustful eyes and switches into an English-girls’-school headmistress. She shuffles Mel et al into her office—now playing the owner of a resort for rich women.
A few baby gulls were feeling out their adult wings as I ambled home from the Playhouse. Why was I grumbling about this and complaining about that earlier? “You gotta have a few crazy friends, right,” Jane says, “they keep you on your toes.” Although Mel is a “hot mess, train wreck, shit show, and human clown car, she’s our disaster and our friend and none of this works without her!”
Adam Poole
24th August 2026
If you are interested in viewing this screening, please book your tickets here
