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Film Review: Suicide Squad

Suicide Squad (2016; Directed by David Ayer)

Suicide Squad is bad, and I don’t mean “bad” as in “good”, as the kids like to say these days. Murky, violent, and disavowing any lingering sense of morality or discernment or empathy, David Ayer’s comic-book-villains-act-the-hero action pornography has the visual aesthetic of a dime-store faux-punk-rock poser spewing obscenities and vomit while sinking inexorably into a tar pit. But this movie is ugly on levels deeper than its leprous skin. Beneath the visible cankered tumour on the surface is a diseased biomass of retrograde sexual and gender politics, authoritarian assumptions, and (comparatively benign) lazy, shallow, and incoherent characterization and storytelling. Suicide Squad is to superhero blockbusters as Donald Trump is to public life: so manifestly incompetent, demonstrably dishonest, patently disgusting, and robustly objectionable in so many different ways that it’s difficult to even apprehend them all, let alone detail them in any comprehensive manner.

The latest entry in the hastily-erected DC Extended Universe, Suicide Squad makes one long for the proportionally mild transgressions of Zack Snyder’s gracelessly ponderous Superman films. At least those juvenile fascistic power fantasies are generally pretty to look at. This one is a gurgling, miasmatic bog of hideous misbegotten design, unsightly cinematography (its colour palette varies from baldly necrotic to the hue of regurgitated bubblegum), and terrible, nasty ideas cannibalizing each other and then clubbing the desperate surviving concepts to death with cudgels of stripped bone. I may exhaust my supply of metaphors of decay and repugnance before even wading into a synopsis of its plot, such as it is, but no amount of descriptive bile can change the fact that, despite (because of?) its nauseating nature, Suicide Squad was a firm box office success. Were it not for the disheartening election of its splenetic, syphilitic tangerine of a spiritual confrère to the White House in the same year, the American public’s decision to anoint Suicide Squad as a hit movie may have been the most lamentable national mistake of 2016.

The concept of the titular team of psychopathic criminals, cold-blooded killers, and anti-social freaks dispatched as expendable special forces on nigh-on impossible and likely lethal missions (based on the DC Comics titles) is introduced surprisingly quickly and with unsurprisingly little practical justification. The Squad is the brainchild of U.S. deep state hardass Amanda Waller (Viola Davis), who’s so tough and no-nonsense she makes Stalin look like a triggered snowflake in comparison. Waller argues that deploying a team of incredibly dangerous wild cards to safeguard American power interests is defensible because the ineffably powerful and inherent uncontrollable Superman is out there in the world (although, as of the end of Batman v. Superman, he’s also dead, but she may know what we all assumed: he isn’t really) and therefore other such powerful beings might be too. No one else effectively pushes back against this Cheneyite paranoid nonsense, “art” (those air quotes are so necessary) thus reflecting life. Not only does Suicide Squad take the total triumph of the One Percent Doctrine and War on Terror zero-sum-ery in the U.S.  intelligence and military community (or at least this cartoon version of it) for granted, it considers itself serious and even wise for embracing the use of the blackest of black-ops skullduggery in the supposed defence of beknighted liberty.

And so, at the snap of Waller’s fingers, waves of armed and armoured foot soldiers swoop down on the grimy ultra-maximum-security facilities holding these dangerous and reluctant commandos to set them loose on the enemies of the republic. The key pair of Suicide Squaddies that we’re evidently supposed to find somehow sympathetic are skilled sharpshooting assassin Deadshot (Will Smith) and mascara-smeared, screw-loose manic nympho-clown Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie). Deadshot, being a Will Smith character, has a beloved daughter whose innocent disapproval of his contract-killing ways gives him soulful pangs of guilt. Harley, being a Margot Robbie character, is hyper-sexualized and objectified to an obscene extent, all while pining with twisted Stockholm-Syndrome-ized longing for her Insane Clown Sugar Daddy guru, the Joker (Jared Leto).

Deadshot and Harley Quinn are joined by a rogue’s gallery of antihero blackguards: Jai Courtney as a dirtbag Aussie thief and lethal boomerang-hurler, Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje as the super-strong reptilian Killer Croc, Jay Hernandez as a fire-summoning Latino gangbanger, and Adam Beach and Karen Fukuhara as even more minor tag-alongs. Entrusted to the supervision of Special Forces Colonel Rick Flag (Joel Kinnaman) and compelled to obey orders by Waller’s threats of immediate termination if they don’t, the Squad is dispatched to the evacuated Midway City (actually urban Toronto, where the film was shot) to neutralize the Enchantress (Cara Delevingne), an ancient evil magical spirit that has possessed the body of Flag’s archaeologist love interest and is causing some large-scale supernatural havoc.

This adventure involves lots of shooting and punching and kicking, mostly half-glimpsed in the nocturnal setting, as well as the requisite explosions. For all of the frantic, overwrought activity and quick-cut pseudo-subversive insanity that Ayer deploys on his cinematic canvas, Suicide Squad is stunningly boring. Things simply happen, not because of believable character choices or the logical progression of events but because things happening is purportedly cool. Smith and Robbie, enervated and charming star-level performers as they are, find themselves repeatedly let down by the dialogue: they seem game for transgressive fun (especially the peppy Robbie) and positively beg for dagger-thrusting one-liners after particular acts of violent grace, but the punchlines are uniformly flat and recycled (Ayer wrote the script too, so he can’t even shift the blame). Hernandez is the only supporting Squaddie allowed to make any sort of impression, his El Diablo holding back his fiery powers after they caused an unfathomable personal tragedy, but his features lose expressiveness under a mask of tattoos (so much ink in this damn movie) and casual assumed racism diminishes him as well. It’s sad, as well, to remember Akinnuoye-Agbaje on Lost, when his Mr. Eko portended the actor as the next Idris Elba, and see him hidden beneath prosthetics and growls here.

There’s layers of failure to Suicide Squad. We now know about its disappointing incompetence, but beneath that is its active, deplorable offensiveness. Much of this deplorability seems to swirl around and even emanate from Leto’s tackily gangsta-fied Joker. Despite the actor and character’s high billing, Leto is only in the movie for an extended-cameo fraction of its running time, and plays a very minimal role in the narrative. But his Joker is a flame for the misshapen moths of the movie’s ugliness to swarm to, dark shadows and the foul stench of burning wings abounding.

Greasy, spiky, leering, and utterly non-frightening, Leto plays DC’s iconic supervillain as a sadistic but preening kooky prick who seems like he could be toppled by a mildly-determined parole officer, or even a stern stepmother. The press coverage of Leto’s performance was an unintentional comedy goldmine for details of his irritating, amateurish Method approach. He never broke character during production (Smith drily claimed never to have met him, though perhaps he meant to say that he wished he hadn’t), annoyed his fellow cast members with grating practical jokes, hung out with mental patients, watched Alejandro Jodorowsky movies, read about shamanism, and listened exclusively to 1920s gospel music (Leto hilariously explained this last nonsensical indulgence by sharing his impression that the Joker “may be much older than people think”). Despite immersion in such eccentric material, Leto’s Joker is almost perversely derivative, recombining the vocal deliveries of the iconic Joker actors (Jack Nicholson, Mark Hamill, and of course Heath Ledger) into something thoroughly unshocking and unsurprising.

But Leto’s Joker is in the film just long enough to fatally infect it, especially as regards Margot Robbie’s Harley Quinn. The character’s presentation as a coquettish corporate-punk-rock jailbait sex object, her body subject to the invasive male gaze of Ayer’s camera as of the eyes of every man in the movie, just wasn’t enough, it seems. Her addictive devotion to the Joker, her sole balancing motivation, is shown to have been compelled by harsh and manipulative psychological and physical torture. Suicide Squad attempts to emphasize the fun in their dysfunction, but the relationship between Harley and the Joker is simply too disturbing, flaunting its trauma-triggering queasiness with too much irresponsible petulance, to qualify as entertainment.

This is how bad Suicide Squad is. It is not content to simply pollute movie screens with repellent visual excrement, disfigure escapist superhero fun with needlessly mean politics and nihilistic violent abandon, or ruthlessly objectify every person in its orbit. No, it must also recklessly exploit the power politics of physical, psychological, and sexual abuse for a nasty vicarious thrill, paining victims and flippantly diminishing that pain as a subversive lark. Suicide Squad is an ordeal for the senses, the mind, the soul. Many people paid to see it, many of them loved it. That’s not good, it’s bad. And, contrary to what this movie believes, bad does not mean good.

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