By Tom Quiner
I went to a movie Tuesday night with a buddy. We saw “Jason Bourne,” a good action flick we knew our wives wouldn’t relate to.
He told me he was going to go see “Suicide Squad” next week with his son.
I told him I had just read the single, worst movie review ever (in the Wall Street Journal), and Suicide Squad had the honors. A few excerpts from Joel Morgenstern’s review:
“In a word, “Suicide Squad” is trash. In two words, it’s ugly trash. Maybe no more words should be wasted on a movie that is, after all, only a movie, not a natural disaster or a terrorist attack. Still, movies contribute to the collective awareness. They can color the way we feel about the life around us. This one deserves further attention by virtue of its exceptional cynicism and startling ineptitude. “Suicide Squad” amounts to an all-out attack on the whole idea of entertainment.”
Morgenstern proceeded to systematically disembowel this film, closing with this salvo:
“A case can be made for the movie being a good fit with the mood of the moment in what passes for real life. If that’s true, we’re all in deeper trouble than we know, and audiences may well embrace the incessant mayhem in lieu of entertainment. But a stronger case can be made for “Suicide Squad” as a product of shameless pandering. “Got me a sewer to crawl back into,” says Killer Croc with lizardly satisfaction toward the end. He’s got nothing on the movie, which was in the sewer all along.”