The Suicide Squad
The Suicide Squad by James Gunn —notice the definite article that sets it apart from its 2016 predecessor—arrives simultaneously as a celebration, a reproach, and a correction. Gunn's vision bursts with such self-assured anarchic energy that it almost justifies the reboot-within-a-reboot conundrum, whereas David Ayer 's film suffocated on studio interference and tonal confusion. This a superhero film in the form of an R-rated splatter, a spoof of a war film, or a punk rock opera. Gunn's direction is so confident, his ensemble so dedicated, and his aesthetic so fully realized that the film transcends its own cynicism to become something strangely joyful: a blockbuster about disposable people that argues passionately for their humanity. It shouldn't work—the plot is purposefully disposable, the body count is enormous, and the humor is frequently pitch-black. The film's fundamental accomplishment is represented by Gunn's direction. He returns with nothing to lose ...
