Suicide Squad

Suicide Squad: What it Lacks in Romance, it Also Lacks in Every Other Way

Reviewed by Steve Huntersmith for DecimalPointless and Suicide_Squad_(film)_Poster

(Editor’s note: Film critic Steve Huntersmith is a love-stricken newlywed. Please keep this in mind while reading the following review.)

Suicide Squad, the latest big-budget comic book explode-a-thon to land in thousands of megaplexes, is a truly difficult film to review. As a newlywed, I have to admit that I hate this film, mostly because it forced me to spend two precious hours away from my sweet widdle schmoopie-woopie. Two full hours (almost three, if you include traffic, which I do) away from my hot stack of loveberry pancakes is just more than I—a mere mortal—can handle right now. I know, I know … the honeymoon is officially over, and I really need to concentrate on getting back to work, but it’s just so darned hard to say goodbye to that tall, sexy glass of yum-yum juice to which I am so fortunate to be married. Her lips taste like a hot fudge sundae, and her hair smells like some of those really crumbly cookies you shake on top of your hot fudge sundae. Strangely, her shoulders don’t remind me of hot fudge sundaes at all, which is kinda weird, considering their close proximity to her hair. But her armpits … you guessed it—hot fudge sundaes!

Quick story: As I was leaving our house (“our house”—isn’t that awesome!) to attend the critics’ screening of Suicide Squad, my new wife (again, awesome!) stopped me at the front door and said, “Do you really have to go to work? Can’t we just climb back into bed and snuggle?” So I said, “Aw, does my teeny-weeny snuggle monkey miss her hubby-wubby already?” And she said, “I just don’t know what I’ll do without my hunka-hunka fur-covered tickle-wickle bear for two whole hours, almost three if you include traffic.” Then she made one of those pouty faces that makes my stomach flutter. I knew I’d better leave quickly or I’d never leave again. Since I pride myself on my professionalism, I blew one last kiss to my vanilla pudding-smeared cuddle duckling and headed off to the movies.

Now, about this Suicide Squad movie … I’m not sure I’d let my children see a movie like this. And, yes, we are planning on having children. My beautiful honey-dripping goddess of a wife thinks we should have two kids, preferably one of each. Isn’t that adorable? As for me, I think I’d like to have five or six little walking embodiments of our love. Of course, I haven’t mentioned that to my mouth-watering slice of love soufflé just yet, but I’m sure she’ll be cool. Speaking of cool, Margot Robbie’s in this movie, and she’s pretty cool. She’s covered in way too many tattoos, otherwise she’d be really sexy—not as sexy as my petite little ice cream cone with love sprinkles, but still pretty hot. In the film, she plays Harley Quinn, a supervillain whose boyfriend is a total psychopath called, of course, The Joker. Their relationship is soooooo messed up. It’s like, take a chill pill and learn to respect each other already. These two could learn soooooo much from my marriage. My creamy butter-pants and I really know how to share our feelings. And sometimes, when it’s late and we can’t sleep because we’re so deeply in love, we profess our love to each other through the magic of song. Which reminds me, the music in this movie, composed by Steven Price, was really beautiful. It reminded me of how beautiful my perfect, perfect angel looked on our wedding day. That’s the power of cinema for ya’.

Oh yeah, Will Smith and Jared Leto and a bunch of other yahoos fight and use superpowers and stuff. One of them is some kind of witch or something … if that helps.

So, I guess the movie wasn’t terrible. I mean, it wasn’t as good as a night at home with my tasty little peanut butter cup with whipped cream and a cherry on top, but no movie could ever be that good.

I give Suicide Squad 1.5 chocolate hearts, a butterfly kissy, and a big warm hug out of … I don’t know … 4.

(Suicide Squad is rated PG-13 for adult language, violence, and for sentencing me to two horrific hours of terrible loneliness away from my little cuddle-bug, three if you include traffic.)

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