Upsetting Day: Sucker Punch, Round Two

I’m reviewing Sucker Punch. At all costs. Even if it gets me thrown out mid-flight.

My first tilt got me 11 minutes in. This round, I’m aiming for an hour without blacking out. And focusing on the dressing: punching and music. Those sound like the main attractions, but Sucker Punch is mostly dead escorts and Emily Browning’s knees. Either way, the dialogue round might kill me.

Fun times. Each scene hurts in new ways. Like getting kicked in a fair fight, by someone larger and faster. You already know it’ll suck, but your teeth shift to novel angles.

Well, some less novel.

Some too familiar.

Maybe you haven’t heard of it, or repressed it. Excellent move. Teach me that later. For now, know that it’s Zack Snyder’s feminist manifesto. If you’re still here, we’re twins. You want to know what lies beyond shit. Take my hand. You’ll only regret every moment.

It’s also the story of Schoolgirl Jesus, played by Emily Browning. That’s kinder than her stated name, Babydoll. You can call that a reclamation of the insult. Hold on to that spirit. It deserves more than Sucker Punch. Snyder saw Violet Baudelaire, grunted loudly, and made a career. Well, killed it until last year. Good on her for the comeback.

The creep factor’s intense. After rewatching it, I think I’m banned from Singapore Airlines.

Last time, Babydoll shot at her stepdad, no-scoped her sister, and entered Nurse Ratched’s Home for Wayward Models. The staff (Jon Hamm and Oscar Isaac, competing for career lows) poked her brain, for the first of three or so times. This melodrama unfolds over “Where Is My Mind, ” in a rough day for sound.

The song’s fine, in its original form. And countless YouTube covers. The Sucker Punch edition eats shit. Emily Browning performs a tercet with Yoav and Zack Snyder’s drool. Emily sings like it’s her first time playing Rock Band, and Yoav sings like he’s punching up a Snyder soundtrack. Neither elevates the new instrumental, which evokes early Reznor on shittier drugs. He beat heroin, so we’re talking battery acid mixed with taxes.

Again: it plays over Babydoll’s lobotomy, a move so literal it defies simile.

I’ve got a soft spot for gleeful stupidity. Sadly, the Gears of War colors fit in: you won’t find a more self-serious film outside a funeral slideshow. It’ll move your heart, if you’ve never watched, read, played, experienced, or daydreamed anything else. Otherwise, the mind wanders.

A theory about this cover, and half Snyder’s picks. He’s an easy mark for epic emotional tags after one made him rich. See, 300 broke out after channeling Americana’s fascist infection. And a fun trailer. 300 had a very fun trailer.

One set to Nine Inch Nails’ “Just Like You Imagined.” A tense track that successfully hits the “cliffside guitar solo” vibe most trailercore covets. Everyone made money, and no one felt weird about 300 until the damage was done. Leaving Snyder, a creature of instinct, drawn to that tone like a lizard to heat, or a Snyder to Emily Browning.

Or maybe I’m full of shit. Either way, we get Joker: Folie à Deux song selection with no Gaga.

Some say Sucker Punch would thrive as simple, literal music videos. Fair theory, if you ignore the audio and visuals. For my money, any plot shields Snyder. He’s a fundamentally weak director. The further he drifts from Moore/Millar/Lucas (theft counts), the clearer it gets. Take our main and endless musical number, “Love is the Drug.”

Now, pay attention here. Or don’t, it truly doesn’t matter. But the first reality jump’s where Sucker Punch loses most unpaid viewers. Even fans let the sewage wash over them, whispering “this is home. I don’t ask home for rewrites, or primary colors. I simply bask in the slime.”

It’s a Roxy Music cover. Babydoll hallucinates capture by a mob-owned nightclub/bordello/Chicago set. The countdown’s to her virginity sale, instead of her next brain ventilation. It’s just as stressful as her surface reality, raising questions about the coping device. But I suspect runtime fatigue fuels that complaint, so bin it. Just know it’s set up via a giant, bloated Moulin Rouge tribute.

That goes on.

And continues.

And continues.

Sadly, every dance sequence flub in Battle of the Year returns. Snyder grabs every cutaway, reaction, slo-mo shot (he’s still ramping’s stepfather) he can to undercut the choreo. That said, the music’s fine-ish this time. Marking the peak of our music video efforts.

Then the misery goes grey again.

Stirring.

Like all reigns of terror, numbness sets in. You accept this dumber, louder misery porn. Freeing Snyder to introduce an even dumber, louder layer. Babydoll spares herself slow-mo dancing by imagining cyborgs.

The action’s finally here! The Snyder review template is “cancer until the punching starts.” This time, the cancer’s reached the film’s knuckles. For the first time in Snyderland, stabbing’s the worst part. Other than the closing monologue. I’ll tip my hand early: Sucker Punch has the worst closing statement this side of Neville Chamberlain.

This time, we get lunchbox samurai. They project the weight, menace, and production value of the Putty Patrol. But while plots drag the Putty Patrol around, these robots just…appear. They’re how Babydoll sees pirouettes, and I’d rather watch real pirouettes than flash kicks by a Pyongyang sweatshop.

Sucker Punch knows you’ll love this shit. You have to. The studio bet everything on it. Posturing’s the one storytelling trick Snyder stays awake for, and this fight’s all trailer shots and Jecht shots. Yet it bites dick.

For one: remember what I said about weight? It’s fine that the scene’s not real. What is? Every civic virtue’s gone missing. But they don’t even playfight. The samurai look like they’re not done loading, and Babydoll moves like a strung-out greenscreen stunt woman in a guaranteed bomb. Okay, fair. But the robots suck less relatably.

With all that dumbfuckery laid out, I’ll defend one Sucker Punch victim: nested reality. The problem isn’t stacking three layers. It’s failing all three. Layer One is a miserable, grey slog that Dick Wolf would call “slightly exploitative.” Layer Two is the inbred son of Moulin Rouge and The Great Escape, which mix like whiskey and motorcycles. Layer Three melds a game’s cash-in anime and an anime’s cash-in game. They’d suck alone, and suck together.

At least this way they’re a break from each other. This could have been all abuse or all robot. Guess which one’s more watchable. The answer might horrify you.

The Twitch layer baffles me. Snyder’s catalog says he’s speed-read at least two books. Three, if you think he read Watchmen captions (I don’t do conspiracy theories). He has the media literacy to know—skip the dunk, he does—that this is air. Not video game shit, or stylish shit, or fun stupid shit. The void. The darkness between planets.

I’m not above video game bullshit. I own Dynasty Genocide games on multiple consoles. And Dynasty Genocide tie-ins to multiple franchises. Half can generously be called “software.” We’re not in that space. Sucker Punch feels like Advent Children for transferred priests.

And then it’s back to grey weeping.

Lord, that was a marathon. I think we’re closing in on the finale.

Can I divorce myself? At this rate, I’ll die waist-deep in Snyder’s trash. When the LongCat MemeSquad kicks down my door, I’ll be halfway through the closing speech. The batons will hurt less.

Ah well. At least I’ve landed.

I fucked up last time. Sucker Punch doesn’t deserve comparison to a smart ninja waif movie. Instead, I’m bringing in a better mess. A car wreck you can walk away from. A lovable idiot. You don’t have to be smart to play in this water. Just smarter than Snyder.

Let’s talk Furies.

It’s the sequel to Furie, a martial arts standout. And Vietnam’s first crossover hit since…Furie. The lead, Veronica Ngô, got carte blanche to direct a Netflix-exclusive sequel. A formula for glory or disaster, and yup.

Ngô made a prequel about the first flick’s villain, Bi, and cast herself as the new double-duty villain/mentor. Which, if nothing else, explains Bi’s brutality in Furie. Her foster sensei came back with a new haircut, screaming about a baby. You wouldn’t hold back.

Furies starts with a massive tonal flub, given the madcap vibe of the rest: Bi’s protracted assault. Lars Von Trier style. I’m not being edgy, that’s how it kicks off. Ngô shares Snyder’s blunt sense of tragedy, she just has other ideas.

Bi heals the modern way: joining the Deadly Viper Cheer Squad, and purging the underworld. The teen team replaces Bill with Veronica Ngô, which my lizard brain calls an upgrade. Before I can question that premise, they’re hunting dealers, traffickers, and anyone standing nearby with spiky hair. Half the deaths in Furies were there for Club Night.

Bi’s dance card is full. With punchouts that rule.

And a chase that sucks. It happens. Followed by more punchouts that rule.

Remember what I said about the tone? It’s still drift racing. Half of Bi’s quest to personally strangle all sinners is a bouncy coming-of-age action-comedy. Bi’s adopted sisters Moody and Doomed seem like they might actually kill all crime, until you remember this is a prequel. Then you wait for the other fist to drop.

It’s all Darth Veronica’s plan to eliminate the competition and seize PHBBBBT. I’m not claiming this shit makes sense, just that it’s more fun than watching Snyder play tragedian. Now it’s time for a rematch, only it isn’t, but it sort of is. I’ve watched too much late WCW to question it. Sucker Punch tripped over a subterranean bar.

A few things elevate Ngô’s dumbshit punching over Synder’s. One: the action choreo exists. Veronica lends key fights all the TLC the script lacks. And, by inches, sells the main trio through them. Mostly. Punching, like jokes, soft lighting, a small animal, or abs, can cover some of a missing second draft’s sympathy legwork. It’s a part of character. Watch Jason describe a Jack Reaching and you’ll get it. It’s why Jackie Chan never slips below a 3.

In case that doesn’t work for you (read: you’re smarter than me), Ngô promotes herself to Shao Khan in the last fight. This dustup’s going in her reel, so it’s a gas. Imagine being adopted by Mad Dog, and ducking your evil chores.

Letting someone book themselves as prime Triple H has a hundred downsides. The upside’s this fight. It rips. The road there’s winding and half-unpaved, but we get to end strong.

Furies lands better with none of the money. The kicks have delightful (also: any) impact. It has zero musical goals, but wins by skipping ten covers of karaoke standards. And Ngô’s approach to The Issues feels less plastic. I don’t know what either director thinks or feels or donates to. But one writes and shoots like an opportunist with a schoolgirl kick. I may sound like I hate Sucker Punch beyond reason, but I’m just against the way it walks, talks, and dresses.

You get away with more when you care. But it’s irie, this feud is over. For today. I’m not letting that fucking speech go. My new guru says vengeance heals the soul.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Dan B, who graciously let us borrow his well-worn copy on HD DVD.

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