John Landis’ 1983 comedy has survived into the 21st century by coasting on warmly nostalgic memories of catching it on cable one weekend or another, snickering at the crudely silly joys found within. Well, memory plays tricks on you, and nostalgia is a motherfucker, because Trading Places is a boring, tone-deaf, mean-spirited, racist piece of shit. Maybe three or four solid laughs (almost all belonging to Paul Gleason as Clarence Beeks) have survived their entombment in this rancid turd. In 1983, Trading Places explained to audiences that Eddie Murphy could carry a movie. In 2017, it explains how someone like Max Landis came out the way he did.