Suicide Squad

Suicide Squad ½

There is an idea of Suicide Squad, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real movie, only an entity, something illusory, and though you can grip the ticket you purchased and hear its rock-along soundtrack and feel its light against your retinas and maybe you can even sense the human beings that worked for years on it: it simply is not there. It is hard for me to make sense of this movie on any given level. It is fabricated, an aberration. It is an entirely expected piece of filmmaking. Its script is sketchy and unformed, its stupidity goes deep and is persistent. Its ethics, its empathy, its artistic aspirations disappeared a few months ago (probably in the editing process) if they ever did exist. There are no more barriers to cross. All Suicide Squad has in common with the poorly edited and the haphazardly written, the offensive and the deceitful, all the fanboy wars it has caused and its utter indifference towards them, the film has now surpassed. It still, though, holds on to one single bleak truth: no film is safe from corporate control, nothing is redeemed. Yet Suicide Squad is blameless. Each type of filmmaking must be assumed to have some validity. Is garbage something a film is? Or is it something the filmmakers create? Suicide Squad's pain is constant and sharp and it does not hope for a better experience for anyone. In fact, it wants its pain to be inflicted on the audience. It wants no one to escape. But even after observing this—and I have countless times, in just about every focus group steamrolled project I've viewed—and coming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about cinema, no new understanding can be extracted from my analysis. There has been no reason for me to tell you any of this. This review has meant nothing.

Ranking 2016

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