|Avengers: Infinity War landed on movie screens this weekend. Guess my response.|
No, really, I'm not kidding. Spoilers.
Marvel, which stumbled (though making out financially like bandits) with Black Panther, marking the end of unbroken successes since the Avengers' prequels started over a decade and change ago, is now fully in the grip of the Disney @$$holes who killed the Star Wars franchise with the last (wait, two...no, three) utterly franchise-killing atrocious movies.
This Avengers' outing, in a script that must have been vetted by Paul Ehrlich himself, is the World Series where a bomb goes off in the eighth inning of Game One, and wipes out half the favored team.
Good luck selling tickets for the next game.
It's the Rocky sequel where Sylvester Stallone gets into the ring, gets a head shot, and dies of a brain aneurysm in the second round, kicking and twitching on the canvas, right in the middle of the movie.
If Mel Gibson had done Braveheart like this, he would have opened with the final scene, then just shown Longshanks raping the Scots for two hours, like Marvel did to the audience in this two-and-half-hour set-up to getting cornholed by Marvel like Tim Roth did to Jessica Lange in Rob Roy (which was R-rated for a reason):
Audiences haven't been butt-f**ked this hard just to blatantly milk a sequel cash cow till it bleeds since the ending of The Empire Strikes Back.
Actually, this is worse than that.
Punish the sonsofbitches who foisted this horseshit on an audience, and
Some of you, like the yuuuuuuuuuuuuuge audiences for this thing this weekend, won't listen to that. Seeing this evil craptastic sequel-bait p.o.s. for yourself will be its own reward, and its own punishment.
What do I mean?
The Avengers lose damned near every fight in the movie.
Then, they lose at the end.
Half of them are wiped out, dead.
The list of those who get whacked in this flick is prodigious.
Everybody fleeing Asgaard.
All deader than canned tuna.
Oh, and half the population of the universe.
Sam Jackson's absolute last line in the whole movie, "Motherfu..." summed up audience response pretty perfectly.
Oh, and Hulk has projectile dysfunction after getting his ass beat in the opening scene, and never gets it together for the rest of the movie. Only with the help of a Tony Stark workaround does he finally manage to pull off a half-assed Pedro Serrano "F**k you, Jobu, I do it myself!" lame semi-comeback, before they all choke hard, and get soundly thrashed by the villain in the ultimate battle.
Fury and Hill eat it in the lone easter egg, at the very last second after the credits.
With some cryptic pager logo as the only tease as to how they'll pull some recockulous deus ex machina solution out of their asses in the next movie or three.
(Too late, you've already pulled me out of the movie, and the entire franchise, jackholes.)
Or else, they're going to save one helluva lot on payroll, after killing off half the talent list forever.
The last time we saw an ending this shitty for one side, the loser was Walter Mondale.
The packed midnight show on the second night of the weekend was phenomenal, considering the thing was playing on 15 of 25 screens, sold out through 11PM shows when I bought tickets for it at 8PM, and the parking lot was jam packed like I haven't seen for a movie since May of 1977, for some George Lucas sci-fi flick about some lost robots on a desert planet.
That same audience sat in stunned silence to the entire end of the credits, in an atmosphere best described as funereal.
The last time I saw an audience this thoroughly depressed at the end was the fans rooting for the Russian hockey team at the 1980 Olympics. Or maybe for the Bobby Kennedy victory party in 1968 at the Ambassador Hotel, I can't say which.
After this execreble offering, Disney shares should plummet, and I hope movie-goers with torches and pitchforks storm the studio gates Monday, and demand heads. Tar-and-feathering, at a minimum. (And I'm talking hot tar on bare skin, none of that room-temperature sticky roof patch b.s.)
This sort of betrayal was utter bullshit, and I hope their Marvel sequels all do as well as The Lone Ranger from here on out.
As it is, they'll make metric buttloads of cash this weekend, but I can hope against hope word-of-mouth about this enormous dung-ball kills it off in a couple of weeks.
They thoroughly deserve that, until they apologize for this shitastic stunt.
From now on, they could put strippers and live executions in the opening credits, and the whole franchise is still dead to me.
You've been warned.
And after the trailers, I was looking forward to Ant-Man and The Wasp.
The only way I'm seeing it now is when they send me a free copy in the mail, by way of apologizing for this weekend's monstrous fuck-up.
Like that'll ever happen.
It was fun while it lasted.
Flush twice, this is a monster load, and will overwhelm a low-flush toilet.