Free Guy: Leveling Up, One Cross-Promotion at a Time

Ryan Reynolds in "Free Guy"

Once you acknowledge that it’s creatively bankrupt, Free Guy becomes a reasonably diverting time at the movies. It’s a work of benevolent fraud, like an identity thief who steals your credit card and then buys you some cool shit before jetting off to Cancun. It’s also a fascinating document for where it sits in today’s precarious blockbuster landscape: a big-budget original screenplay that nonetheless feels awkwardly bootstrapped to the superior pictures it’s imitating. It’s an original copy—an organic movie with a synthetic soul.

Free Guy was technically directed by the journeyman Shawn Levy (Night at the Museum, Real Steel), but its true authorship is corporate. It’s being distributed under the banner of “20th Century Studios”, which means it was initially developed at Fox before that company was acquired by Disney, the insatiable commercial behemoth that currently owns roughly 98% of the market share. The film’s first trailer, which premiered back during the Before Times of December 2019, winkingly ridiculed the Mouse House’s penchant for recycling old hits (“from the studio that brought you Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin, and The Lion King… twice”), but Free Guy occupies a curious double-zone; even as it’s trumpeting its original bona fides at every turn, it’s continually leveraging its preexisting brand in the hope of launching yet another merchandise-friendly franchise. Read More

The Suicide Squad: I Think I’m Gonna Thrill Myself

John Cena in Idris Elba in The Suicide Squad

What makes a good superhero movie? Given the routine onslaught of costumed crusaders at the multiplex, the question seems pertinent. It also seems irrelevant, as the discourse surrounding the genre’s overall merits—a perpetual battle between triumphant, weirdly hostile fans (comics rule, deal with it!) and bitter, exasperated detractors (get a life, nerds!)—tends to feel preprogrammed, regardless of the particular installment at issue. But even if all superhero flicks are the same, some are less the same than others. And The Suicide Squad, the entertaining and ridiculous sequel/reboot/standalone/whatever from James Gunn, possesses an unusually keen understanding of how such films should work. Funny, colorful, and only occasionally tedious, it keys in on two fundamental truths: Superheroes are comedians, and superheroes are psychopaths.

It’s easy to miss that second one, as popular culture tends to connote masked vigilantism with virtuous qualities: responsibility, integrity, sacrifice. (They’re called superheroes, after all.) The job’s less savory aspects—the constant deception, the maniacal narcissism, the extralegal beatdowns—tend to be secondary considerations, or obstacles of self-doubt that the protagonist must hurdle en route to saving the world and getting the girl. One nice thing about The Suicide Squad is that it scarcely bothers to imbue its demented warriors with any righteousness or internal conflict. Instead, their motivations are squarely selfish; most of them are convicts, and they agree to participate in the obligatory searching and rescuing in exchange for years being shaved off their prison sentences. And of course, if any of them misbehaves or goes off mission, then their no-nonsense director, Amanda Waller (Viola Davis, all business), will remotely detonate the explosive charge embedded in their skull. Read More

Pig, Gunpowder Milkshake, and the Instant Legacy of John Wick

Karen Gillan in Gunpowder Milkshake; Nicolas Cage in Pig

John Wick is technically an original character, but the films featuring him aren’t really anything new. They’re just slickly repackaged creations that combine the archetypes of the classic Western—the retired warrior begrudgingly forced back into battle—with the balletic flair of John Woo’s gun-fu pictures. Still, their mythology is so wonderfully detailed, and Keanu Reeves’ central performance is so intensely charismatic, that the franchise has quickly morphed from pastiche into primary source. Now, when a genre exercise like Nobody hits theaters, it’s instantly billed as “Bob Odenkirk doing John Wick”.

Last week alone saw the release of two new movies that wear their Wick influences loudly: Gunpowder Milkshake, featuring Karen Gillan as an assassin on the run, and Pig, starring Nicolas Cage as a hermit who’s drawn back into a dangerous underworld. Neither is nearly as good as the best Wick flick (that remains Chapter Two, though Parabellum certainly has its moments), but they’re nonetheless interesting for how they both pay tribute to and differentiate themselves from the film that has suddenly become the standard-bearer for revenge cinema. Read More

F9: The Fast Saga: Love Motion No. 9, Now with Magnets

Vin Diesel and John Cena in F9: The Fast Saga

The Fast and Furious movies are rarely funny—what passes for comedy typically involves shrieks from Tyrese Gibson, followed by pained reaction shots from Ludacris—but at least one moment in F9: The Fast Saga made me laugh. Describing the logistics of an impending piece of preposterous derring-do, Tej (Ludacris) calmly declares, “As long as we obey the laws of physics, we’ll be fine.” To quote Frances McDormand in Almost Famous: funny joke! It’s been two decades since this nominal saga began with a B-movie production of underground street racers hijacking trucks full of DVD players; as the installments have grown increasingly expensive and elaborate, their interest in physical plausibility has correspondingly waned to the point of vanishment. Over the course of F9’s long and loud 145 minutes, cars don’t just zoom down roads and across bridges and into the occasional wall; no, they leap off cliffs and crash through department stores and even careen through outer space. Forget physics—the only law this movie is interested in obeying is the law of the sequel.

This isn’t necessarily a complaint. While there’s something to be said for cinematic action that’s rooted in real-world corporeality, films that use convincing special effects to distort and exaggerate reality carry their own outsize appeal. My issue with the maniacal chaos of F9, which was directed by Justin Lin (helming his fifth entry in the franchise, and first since Fast & Furious 6), isn’t that it’s unrealistic but that it’s unexciting. No one could possibly accuse this movie of lacking energy or noise, but it rarely executes its vehicular mayhem with wit or distinction. It’s less an issue of credibility than anonymity; the film’s defining aesthetic personality is no more inventive than Cars Go Vroom. Read More

Wrath of Man: No Wisecracks, Just Cracked Skulls

Jason Statham in Wrath of Man

Guy Ritchie and Jason Statham: match made in tough-guy heaven, or secretly awkward fit? Historically, it’s hard to argue with the results; Statham received his first two roles in Ritchie’s first two films—the frenetic crime caper Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels, and the even more frenzied crime caper Snatch—which launched the bald Brit to stardom while also granting their director a measure of name recognition. But while both artists have since enjoyed successful careers (Statham more so than Ritchie), they thrive in different modes. Statham is a natural glowerer; his strength as an action hero stems less from his athleticism than his single-minded tenacity. But Ritchie, for all his pretensions of alpha-male seriousness, works best when deploying a light touch; The Man from U.N.C.L.E. was charming precisely because it felt frivolous rather than strenuous. If their pairing isn’t oil and water, it’s something like fists and finesse.

Wrath of Man is Ritchie and Statham’s first movie together following a 14-year separation (their third collaboration was 2007’s ill-regarded Revolver), and it takes all of 20 seconds before it declares its governing tone. As Christopher Benstead’s doomy score thunders with Zimmer-like braaams, the camera slowly pushes in on a smoggy Los Angeles, eventually locating an armored car snaking its way out of a gated facility. Within moments, the boxy car is being held up, though we never see the perpetrators; instead, the camera remains inside the vehicle, watching sparks fly as a sinister device carves its way through the side door’s thick steel. You don’t see much of what happens next, but you hear all of it—the blasts of explosives, the screams of the guards, the rip-rip-rip of gunfire—and the intensity is palpable. Most of Ritchie’s films, even the ones that traffic in extreme violence and moral depravity, are coated with a sheen of playfulness. This one wants to hurt you. Read More