Possibly this is the pinnacle of millennialtroon slopfest that only mentally ill millennialtroons subhumans love it so much. No wonder it bombed at the BO and nobody cared about.
One sits through this one and we’re reminded, with the dull persistence of a dripping faucet, that mediocrity now arrives pre-canonized; the discourse demands we genuflect before its mere existence, as though the absence of catastrophe were itself a form of grace. It is a film that confuses reference for reverence and reverence for vision, mistaking a competent Carpenter pastiche for the kind of formal derangement that once made these characters dangerous. Where Avery and Jones weaponized the frame against itself, Browngardt merely decorates it; where Daffy was once a Beckett protagonist with a beak, here he is reduced to the indignity of character growth, that most bourgeois of contemporary afflictions. The animation is pretty, in the way hotel art is pretty. The voice work is impeccable, in the way a sommelier describing a Capri Sun is impeccable. And the audience, having forgotten what anarchy tastes like, mistakes the saccharine for the sublime and weeps at a children’s film about chewing gum because Warner Bros. nearly didn’t release it, which is less a critical position than a Stockholm syndrome diagnosis.
>>154619160
I liked some of it.
