Review: The Suicide Squad
As someone who sat through all three installments of the Human Centipede trilogy, I think it could be said that I have a high tolerance for cinematic ultra-violence. So none of the bloody goings-on depicted in The Suicide Squad that have reportedly upset some people—the neck-snapping and the head-ripping, I guess, and probably the sight of somebody being torn in half from top to toe—upset me even a little. More disturbing, to my mind, are the bad jokes that don’t land and the creative disarray into which the movie sometimes sinks. Writer-director James Gunn, a veteran of the Troma Z-movie factory, has imbued the picture with a proud neo-junkiness, and the good news is that, to a certain extent, it’s intermittently entertaining.
The story…well, how much do you really need to know? The Suicide Squad has been reconstituted this time out, with only fan-fave Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie) and colorless team leader Rick Flagg (Joel Kinnaman) left over from the near-universally derided first film. (Boomerang artist Jai Courtney is also in evidence early on, but very briefly.) Now, government black-ops weasel Amanda Waller (Viola Davis) has bolstered the group’s numbers with an infusion of likable new b
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