modernmonstersdotnet

Another example of a movie delivering the exact opposite that what its hype and teasers promised, Suicide Squad is the big 2016 summer letdown, a tent pole crashing under its own weight and an absolute bore. It's like watching a train wreck, only it's a toy train carrying action figures instead of characters, like watching the paint dry only it's pale beige, like watching an hourglass measuring the sad fashion you have elected to waste away two hours of your life. Two hours later you will have gained absolutely nothing and you will wish for ten minutes of quality time with the makers of this beached whale, carrying Harley Quinn's baseball bat. But you won't get them.

This thing gives the term "mindless entertainment" a whole new meaning, considering it's neither one nor the other. It's far from mindless, as you can hear throughout the wheels of a declining industry churning to please an audience already saturated by superheroes antics (genius idea: bring in Will Smith!), and not entertaining in the slightest because should have they conceive a torture device for Guantanamo, it would look, sound and feel more or less exactly like this one, in a loop.

What does it say about Hollywood when a movie high concept, "bunch of villains sent against an even worst foe" is treated so cowardly that the result plays like the loosely connected cinematic sequences of a PC game? With most of its avatars on pause, most of them provided with the bare schematics of a character which make eunuchs and no-lifers of them all, with no antagonist to speak of but a fashion model and no threat whatsoever to their little, desperate, insectile life, you bet you understand what it says: here's you garbage flick of the week, morons; see it in the theater because downloading is evil.

Viola Davies, unable to be bad even she tried real hard (what she does here with her mouth full) carries around a thick top secret portfolio of coloured-by-numbers villains her dream is to assemble in an anti Justice League, because she didn't have the opportunity to come up with the Justice League idea in the first place. Fortunately for her, a scientist from the Tara Reid school of Like, Serious Archeology mistakes an ancient clay bottle for a can of pop and frees The Enchantress, a goth chick with severe hygiene issues whose brother trapped in the next bottle have like, a mean God complex. Together they wanna build a McGuffin to rule the world and enslave the human race, so it's time to kick them in the butt real good. Superman is gone, Batman is having a sabbatical, so the next best thing is to flank Willsmith with a quartet of mildly deranged goons, controlled by an explosive device implanted in… oh whatever.

Willsmith was arrested (not branded, natch) by Batman, as was the case for Margotrobbie, so movie can enter the Batman canon as a "Whatever happened to them?" memorial programme. Willsmith is on board with the dual objective to long for his adorable daughter (fortunately not played by his own) and utter the title at some point. Yes, they also did that. Even Batman v. Superman didn't have Bruce Wayne say "I'll be damned, is this the dawn of justice?", right? Right? He's also a sniper who can't miss. Nobody does is better, makes me feel sad for the rest. And they are quite a sad bunch.

So, from memory: a mutant Cindy Lauper who only wanna have fun, a pyrokinetic latino, a crocodile man providing infra-bass, an Aussie with a boomerang (too bad he didn't bring a didgeridoo), a Japanese with a katana (same remark about a koto) team up with Willsmith in order to defeat the Enchantress' budding reign of terror, under the mild maintenance of a war veteran called Flag. Yep, how's that for super heroism? Oh, and there is also this guy who almost misses the chopper, crosses the screen and dies. Really scrapping the bottom of the barrel with this one, Viola. One wonders how many such losers were in your thick portfolio of Evil.

Anyway, helicopters are repeatedly taken down, not unlike frappucinos are gulped at your nearest Starbuck's, the super ordinary dreams of super heroes are revealed by the Enchantress, whose heart is not in it (there, see what just one did? Lol). She nevertheless has the best scene when she accomplishes her transformation and instantly revert to Fashion Week catwalking, Cara Delavinge's background.

Is one missing something? What? The Joker? One doesn't know what you are talking about. The Joker is not in this movie.

Nicolas Winding Refn doesn't know fashion, he doesn't care about fashion, but most importantly, he doesn't feel fashion. That's why he's copycatting Guy Bourdin in the rare occasions it is given screen time. But of course fashion is the least of The Neon Demon's concern. The closer but most elusive domain to cinema, fashion is a mighty beast to tame, and the list is long of directors trying to use it, either as satire or backdrop. Count this movie as another ill-advised foray into the carnivorous industry of youth, beauty, and the predatory behaviours it entails. Oh it's beautiful to look at, and too clever by half. But it's a ridiculous movie all the same.

There are a lot of questions to be asked about where Refn's love for genre will take him at the expense of a coherent cinema. "Do you mind if I use you for that?" is a key phrase, said by a photographer to a model towards the end of the movie. This is definitely a question Refn should have asked Dario Argento before committing his feverish dream about the loss of innocence to film. To be honest, no one has ripped off Argento more shamelessly and unsuccessfully than Argento himself, and before the Suspiria remake hits the theaters next year, The Neon Demon might be the next best thing to the original. But as it the case with fashion, one will argue that Refn doesn't get Argento either. He knows the notes but does not sing the tune; once again, it is not what interests him here. So, what does? Christianism, apparently, as was the case with Only God Forgives. It makes sense: after the Old Testament comes the New.

For some reason everything seems to be happening in bathrooms/toilets, at least the three best scenes. They play like a Christian allegory. The first one, in a dark club, has the Three Mothers (cleverly?) presented in reverse order, and the Mother of Tears, the most dangerous of all, has Jesse (Elle Fanning perfect as a preraphaelite nymph with porcelain skin), lured her out of her comfort zone and orally dissected by her two sisters, the Mother of Darkness, a top model who proudly lists her cosmetic procedures, and the Mother of Sighs, never the It girl to begin with and therefore on passive-aggressive auto-pilot. This is as much temptation as it is a Holy Spirit visitation.

The second scene has Jesse meeting an unfortunate candidate for a runway show after she smashed the ladies room mirror. Jesse attempts to comfort her but is scorned for it. She cuts her hand on the broken glass. What follows is as sudden as it is ghoulish, a communion of sorts which emphasizes what is barbaric, vampiric, in the idea of drinking someone's blood as a religious rite. In the audition scene itself, starting as the Malcolm McLaren video for Madam Butterfly, the way Refn uses sound is very clever: the models walk, and you can hear their shoes creaking on the white floor of the studio. The designer never looks up. When Jesse walks, there is no such noise pollution, so he has to look up, and she's cast.

The third bathroom scene is the shocking one, with an apocalyptic blue pattern on the walls and the body horror you might have heard about. It is another hint at communion, in a potent mix of glossy styling and gore. It might also be the most ridiculous way a director as gifted as Refn can take this idea across to his viewers. The scene has to be seen, and can't be unseen; it is both gross and weirdly disincarnate. The Neon Demon is not sadistic, not even voyeuristic. It makes an earnest attempt at figuring out what it is to be the most beautiful girl in the world, and guesses rightfully that she has to be punished for all the love and lust she inspires. It's too bad the movie wasn't shot in Japan as initially intended. Los Angeles is the wrong Petri dish to grow these alien life forms, reduced to one designer, one photographer and one make up artist (Jena Malone, poised even in the movie's most incongruous foray into exploitation).

There is a thin line between using a genre form for such an aloof purpose and having the rubber, once stretched too far, snapping back in your face. The Neon Demon describes our iconisation of beauty as a pagan cannibalistic cult based on the debasement and consumption of virgins all too willing to sacrifice themselves to the titular demon, a vaginal pentacle devouring them whole at the end of a runway. The virgin thinks she gets a chance at becoming a Holy Trinity of herself, but instead of making her whole the demon slices her up, pixellating flesh and soul alike. There is definitely something Christian in that but, like barocco churches, there is so much imagery at work that it's all to easy to get lost in looking and missing the point.