Kind of an exhausting mess, enveloping and superseding the entire qualityspectrums of what constinatutes "good-ness", "bad-ness" et cetera, kind of a gorgeous, weirdly melancholic and vastly overstuffed victory lap, a lurching, monstrous, oftentimes misshapen cornucopia of ambition and ideas and the final stage of this franchise's long journey from spycraft thrillers to American Shonen. For me, at least, the most surprising facet is how much of it just fucking works for me, considering how messy and shambolic and shaggy this…

The most flagrantly, childishly, condescendingly cynical, dried-husk morgue-slab piece of frozen, stiff, smooth, edgeless faux-risqué pewter IP-peddling nostalgia-bludgeoning money-sucking Frankenstein vapidity yet inflicted on the willing mouths and eyes of the hollow lapdogs that push shit like this to £1bn regularly. Not to sound cruel (I’m kidding, I don’t give a shit), but my screening had people openly weeping by the end of this thing and I’m gonna be frank I earnestly can’t begin to think about what kind of…

Listening to the new Ethel Cain album and following it up with this shit was whiplash of a viscerally unpleasant sort. Don’t recommend it. New album’s great, however. Do check that out.

This, on the other hand.

Autofellating, turgid Prestige pseudo-progressivism. Repo: The Genetic Opera by way of Crash (the bad one), with all the mid-road preaching and hydrogen-dense 'meaning' of the latter cancelling out all the potential fun of the former. Like Adam McKay trying to do an Almodóvar…