Suicide Squad

Suicide Squad

This is not one of those defensible movies that are just cool to hate. Suicide Squad is legitimately bad—very bad. It could have worked as (and appeared to strive toward) a music video for every hit song since 1965 or a cinematic unveiling of Clint Eastwood’s hot son you know from this picture, but instead, unfortunately, it tried to be an actual movie.

Yes, Viola Davis is fantastic, but hers is one of only three characters (Harley Quinn, Deadshot) that’s even remotely interesting. The other 25 or so are either terribly acted (the Joker), caught up in a paper-thin romance (Col. Flag), voiced by an Australian who sounds like the Outback Steakhouse guy (Boomerang), a racial stereotype that wastes a great actor (Killer Croc), an absolutely laughable villain or anti-hero or anti-villain also caught up in a paper-thin romance (Enchantress), or just bizarrely thrown in (Katana, Slipknot). There are probably 10 or so others I forgot to mention.

The bumbling introduction of these characters occurs at a 25-minute dinner table exposition starring Davis and those two white guys you recognize from somewhere. This leads to an incoherent “plot” where villains who aren’t really villains fight a villain who isn’t really a villain. Deep. The “climax” of Suicide Squad resembles too closely a boss battle of a B-list video game, and revolves around the storyline that is amazingly the least interesting—the romance between the army guy and the girl covered in mud who sounds like a muppet at the bottom of a well.

The anticlimax of the story seems to set up Suicide Squad 2, which looks to feature even more of Jared Leto’s squeaky, modernist, creepily prepared Joker. I pray it doesn’t come to be.

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