Don't believe the pre-release hype. While it will, in fact, “do huge box office,” especially in its first three weeks, Suicide Squad is not equipped to “save” the close-to-flailing mega-franchise of DC Comics adaptations that for many years has served as Warner Brothers' commercial, if not always critical, lynchpin. ("Across the street," incidentally, Marvel/Twentieth Century-Fox finds itself in somewhat similar straits, "thanks" in part to this summer's abysmal X-Men Apocalypse.)
But don't believe the anti-hype, either. Ignore the lazy, un-nuanced pans this movie has suffered at the hands of many, perhaps even most, reviewers. This is a decent-ish action film that, while it starts more strongly than it ends, nonetheless works fairly well throughout, thanks to several fine performances and a handful of sequences—primarily, and paradoxically, non-action scenes—that achieve considerable atmospheric and/or tonal success.
Granted, I bring somewhat lower standards to my viewing and enjoyment of superhero movies than I do to more-serious films. Of course, one always appreciates it when a superior DC/Marvel adaptation emerges from a great script (The Dark Knight 2008) or even from a good one (Captain America: The Winter Soldier 2014, which also benefited from an amazing late-career Robert Redford performance, in a supporting role). But I certainly don't bring the same expectations, let alone the same hopes, to the DC/Marvels—some of them anything but marvels—than I do to, say, a new Alfonso Cuaron or Kimberly Peirce of Brit Marling film…nor to anything in which Julianne Moore, whose taste in and savvy about projects match her talent, is involved in any way, shape or form.
Did the screenplay of this supervillain/SF/fantasy update of 1967's The Dirty Dozen need some work? Uh, yeah! It's not a terrible script, nor a terrible film. But the potential so vastly exceeds the results XD-projected onto the screen (as well as those that boom, along with numerous pop and rock songs—most effectively Leslie Gore's protofeminist “You Don't Own Me”—out of the Dolby-system speakers) that one can't help but mourn What Might Have Been.
I'll provide the briefest of plot synopses—or, rather, a premise synopsis. (Why do so many movie reviews tell the story? Isn't that what movie-going is for?). Other reviews have already synopsized SS to death, along with detailing the studio/director push-and-pull during and after production—not exactly a shocking revelation if you've witnessed the erratic results—which I likewise will skip. So, in brief:
Very-high-placed yet ambiguously-titled/-appointed US Government official Amanda Waller (the always outstanding Viola Davis, whose bad-ass gravitas co-saves this film) recruits—through a combination of threats, blackmail, promised prison-sentence leniency, and oh yeah: neck-implanted kill-chips—a team of Earth-born supervillains as diverse, both racially and scary-talents-wise, as it is dangerous. Her Grand Plan: to unleash them on the even-worse alien villains that are destined (or so we're told—not shown) to descend like dark angels from the nighttime (almost invariably in this noir-ish actioner) skies. (SPOILER ALERT—In a nice twist, the Squad's nemesis here instead turns out to be a brother-and-sister duo of heretofore-locked-up gods from our own world's past…or from Eternity, I guess—their being, y'know, gods and all.)
Is Waller's the tried-and-true “extreme crises demand extreme measures” approach to governance and inter-/national defense, writ super-large? You bet. Is there a built-in creative opportunity to create, here, a powerful allegory, or three, for our times? Ditto. Does writer/director David Ayer “go there”? Barely if at all. Whereas Christopher Nolan's aforementioned The Dark Knight allegorically tackled, via genre tropes, a raft of pressing issues du jour—the so-called Patriot Act; extreme surveillance; liberty and civil rights versus national and societal security; the impossibility of predicting the actions of, let alone negotiating with, terrorists unafraid of dying—and deftly explored the ethical implications therein…well, the socio-political subtext of SS remains submerged and, indeed, scarcely visible. (Well, unless you project, as I did.)
Likewise for the socio-cultural/neo-feminist content inherent in the movie's other (besides Waller) standout character, the maybe-crazy goth-punk psycho-jester Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie, “in,” as they say, “a star-making role”). Whenever she's on screen, it's impossible to take your eyes off her—and not just, for those so inclined, because of her outfit and its contents. The only female Squad member (other than Karen Fukuhara's underutilized Samurai, Katana—who, being in the employ rather than the enslavement of the US Government, doesn't really count), the baseball-bat-wielding Harley knocks it outta the park. Given great dialogue to coo and a canny, ass-kickin', utterly unpredictable—and, ultimately quite poignant—super-character to inhabit (or perhaps vice versa—?), Robbie delivers the grown-up-and-gone-bad babydoll-from-Hell goods, dead to rights.
Here as in Quinn's cartoons-and-comics origin, the question remains—for this Harley mega fan, anyway: Is the former Dr. Harleen Quinzel truly insane…or is she cleverly using her over-the-edge(-and-deep-down-into-the-valley!) reputation to disarm—sometimes literally—all who underestimate her? (Turned-on prison guards, for starters.) Once upon a time, she was a brilliant young psychiatrist, so I wouldn't put it past her.
The subtextual implications, Gender-Studies-wise (I'd say we can expect some Harley-themed academic papers shortly), are present, but not nearly to the extent that they could and should be. Harley is presented here as The Joker's ever-compliant girlfriend rather than, as in her comic-books story arc, his once exploited but now empowered ex-, who—yes—still carries a torch, or at least harbors a flame. And, yes: she longs to bring that flame back to “Mista J” in order to light (and be lit by) his, uh, candle. But she no longer allows that flame to burn her: she's her own woman. In contrast, the SS Harley displays unconditional, puppy-like self-indenturedness to her “Puddin'”; her hard-won agency has a purple-and-green boundary wall. “The Full Harley,” if you will, is at her best rompin' 'n' roamin' free—not free-range, on The Joker's metaphorical farm, and not the trophy-squeeze of a male supervillain, in need of his paternal/patriarchal rescue, but a feisty, independent, hilariously clever, apparently bisexual (Poison Ivy being, in the comic books, pretty clearly more than a friend) supervillain-cum-anti-heroine-cum-dark-heroine.
She's also the definitive 21st-century pop-culture stand-in for real-life survivors of abusive relationships who've gone on to find, or reclaim, their power—which, arguably, requires even more strength if the survivor still finds her-/himself, like H.Q., harboring some of “those feelings” for the abuser than if she/he doesn't. And, (Why-so-) seriously now: who could possibly be a more abusive partner, romantic or otherwise, than The Big J?
But enough on Ms. Quinn (though never enough of her!), and back to some reflections on SS in the main:
There are too many members of The Squad, thereby diminishing their likability. Moreover, the one who gets offed near the outset is not the one I'd have “voted off the island.” Will Smith's aim is true as deadly, debonair, street-smart super-marksman Deadshot, and reluctant fire-flinger Diablo (Will Hernandez) displays authentic inner conflict, longing, and guilt, thereby engendering our legit sympathy. But, the others? Narratively expendable. A “mere” trio comprising these two plus Quinn—chaperoned, as it were, by ornery/haunted military man Rick Flag (here, a bland Joel Kinneman; recast him, please—and while you're at it, give his character a less on-the-nose surname) and Katana, themselves put through their paces by Waller…well, that's all the Squad a Suicide Squad movie really needs. The more screen time for the characters who really count, the better.
Cara Delivingne does strong work both as ex-archaeologist and unwitting monster-harborer Prof. June Moone and as Moone's super-villainous alter ego, Enchantress. While this Wicked Witch of the World and her dark aura are beautifully presented special-effects-wise (both visual and aural), the bigger her arena of activity, the less spooky and more CGI-laden this Enchantress, her ilk, and—seemingly—her threat-level become.
And, speaking of arenas: The Joker's metaphorical jersey-and-number (actually, it would just be a letter) should be retired, once and for all, and hung high on the Championship-banners wall inside Gotham City Sports Center. Heath Ledger, who garnered a posthumous Supporting Actor Oscar for his portrayal, defined the role for all eternity in The Dark Knight. Pity poor Jared Leto in SS, laboring to match an incarnation that no one, likely, will ever even approach—and ultimately earning a B-minus-minus, if also an A for effort. He does as good a job as most anyone could of following in Ledger's footsteps—talk about a thankless task! Not a bad Joker, this Scarface-ish, drug-lord-in-the-discotheque version. But not a take-your-breath-away-and-leave-a-smile-(or a ghastly rictus)-on-your-face one, either. We had one of those. Once. In a really killer (Sorry.) movie. Yes, it's time to go and re-watch—yet again—TDK.
As my nephew and fellow filmmaker/cineast Henry Darrow McComas puts it: “Leto overacts and underperforms.” Ouch.
Predictably, the SS action sequences are, for the most part, far too rapid-cut-cut-cutcutcutcut, with a seeming average shot-length somewhere in the micro-second range. I've had it with MTV-video-on-steroids, blink-and-you-miss-four-shots, beyond-cliched action-movie editing that, at one time—like, one-third of a century ago—seemed kind of experimental, and succeeded in boosting the viewer's adrenaline, but now blurs and smears into cine-mush. (It does help a bit to sit in the back half of the audience.) Rapid-cut action editing is a manipulative, generic, lazy and, ironically, boring way to generate—or, more often, to simulate—excitement where little to none otherwise would exist, nor even appear to. (Don't get me started on how editing and cinematography ruined both of the Lara Croft movies. They were based on a video game, for god sake! Can we please follow Angelina Jolie's Prof. Croft, vid-game-like, into and through awesome, amazing spaces via lengthy motion-camera shots? File the Lara duology under: Matched Pairs of Missed Opportunity.)
Call me crazy, or perhaps just pretending to be, but when I watch a fight scene—or a dance sequence, for that matter: see John Travolta's breathtaking, one-lengthy-shot solo dance in Saturday Night Fever—I wanna enjoy the freakin' choreography, and that requires shots of greater length. This usually works just fine, by the way, if the camera is in motion—a technique, which if not overdone, I rather dig. And while we're on the subject of motion camera: Had Alfonso Cuaron directed SS (which he should and could and well might have), and had he been equipped with a better, subtext-acknowledging/-exploring script and a leaner-and-meaner but still Waller-led Squad…? Now, there's a stellar summer movie!—blockbuster or not.
My aforementioned nephew Henry, who disliked this film (as opposed to granting it, as do I, a slightly upward-canted thumb), has mentioned John Carpenter's Escape from New York (1981) in connection with a couple of the most riveting sequences in Suicide Squad. Spooky, that—Prof. Moone, are you there?—because as I watched it, SS, in its best and tensest moments, gave me, too, Escape... vibes and associations. Here as there, bad guys 'n' gals for whom we're rootin' warily stalk, like nocturnal prey-predator combos, the mean streets of a demolished Big Apple…with even-worse baddies potentially lurkin' 'round every corner. Thirty years later, that scenario still works like an Enchantress charm…though perhaps not quite as well in SS as in the Carpenter film with its non-CGI, models-based, yet quite effective (and, looking back from 2016, rather charming) special effects.
Given that this is the story of a bunch of nasty, godlike “meta-humans” battling actual nasty gods, how, er, “plausible” is the plot that flows from the far-flung fantasy premise? Iffy…though I've seen, in certain other DC/Marvel movies, “Super”-worse. Henry McComas (who has now, with this third shared insight, officially earned a portion of what I'm being paid to pen this review) makes another good point: It's rather unlikely, even within the universe of this film, that—SPOILER ALERT—an iPhone app could climactically destroy a pair of immortal deities, their post-technological, supernatural death machine, and all of their soul-deprived super-zombie charges. I'm reminded of the climactic deployment of—STAR TREK: BEYOND SPOILER ALERT!—the Beastie Boys song "Sabotage,” via radio waves, to—again—successfully save the world…or, in that case, worlds. (By the way: a much better Summer '16 film, that.)
I'm not giving up on DC/Marvel. Indeed, in view of Margot Robbie's performance, I hold out high hopes for the upcoming (2018?) Harley Quinn movie, currently titled—according to IMDB—“Untitled Harley Quinn Project.” (Maybe they should keep that title and go a bit avant-garde for a change.) And I'm definitely on board for the coming-soon Wonder Woman re-boot. I've carried a Harley-for-Joker-level undying torch for the Amazonian (and for you too, Lynda Carter, wherever you are…) since age 14 when, being both a budding feminist and a budding adolescent during the mid-'70s Women's Movement, I found multiple reasons to admire double-W—some more evolved than others.
In the final analysis: Largely thanks to Robbie, Waller and, to a lesser extent, Smith, Hernandez, and Delivingne—as well as to a decent First Act, plus several dark-lovely, atmospheric, mostly-between-fights sequences (particularly those Carpenterian mean-streets moments)—Suicide Squad is worth two hours of any fan-girl's or -boy's time.
Go in and sit down (not in the front!) with the expectation of a Squad semi-squandered—and with lots o' “butter on the 'corn”—and you, too, may very well semi-enjoy it.
