Author: Devon Pack

The question is phrased as: is making great art a thing worth dying for? Clooney’s film goes further: is it worthwhile to risk the lives of young men for the sake of preserving great works of art?

If you want a vision of the future, as Orwell said, imagine a weeping mustachioed man-child masturbating into the input socket of a sighing iPad- forever.

Ultimately, the film feels more like the Ron Burgundy sketch show than a comedy film. But overall, it’s too disorganized, a grunting stream of non sequiturs thrown out in a desperate chase to dig every vein of comedy gold that can be found.

One of the textbooks symptoms of a bad sequel is one that tries to merely repeat what you liked about the film, while jostling you sharply in the ribs to remind you of what you once enjoyed.

I get it, evil future dictators. You like gladiatorial death-matches because they allow you to entertain the public while slaying your opponents. Do you know a better way to kill those two mockingjays with one stone? Play the Benny Hill music as the soundtrack every time you televise an execution.