The Suicide Squad

The Suicide Squad ★★★½

It’s bring your childhood traumas to work day with James Gunn’s “The Suicide Squad.”

The auteur of the cynical superhero shoot em up grants his glib outrageous avoidant attachment style to a second go around for the franchise of problematic renegades. 

Gunn’s brand of sweet-talking insincerity has become the thesis of the superhero genre since he unleashed it with “Guardians of the Galaxy.” It makes the often overlong slugfests into at least illusions of nimble quippage. 

It also turns all that sound and fury… into nothing. 

Gunn has a flamboyance of visualization that make his entries in the cape genre a blissful escape from what has become a desert of grayscale. But beneath all the bombastic sparkling explosions… are only glittering ashes. 

While Gunn’s works unquestionably have more coherence than, say, those of his DC colleague, Zack Snyder, they also are the equivalent of cotton candy to Snyder’s over-seared steaks:
One melts instantly in your mouth without nutrients or subsistence. The other needs to be overly chewed on… an ambitious attempt so over-tended to that it becomes nearly flavorless. 

In the superhero genre, neither of these meals is necessarily too punishing of a selection. You aren’t eating at Jiro Dreams of Kurosawa. This is closer to theme park fare. 

But just as you expect more at a Naples eatery than at Pizza Rizzo in Disney World, so too should audiences not let the genre’s (or Gunn’s) discomfort with emotional intimacy or depth dissuade them from seeking it in other pieces of cinema.

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