Guardians of the galaxy vol 2
Ego tripping
Star-Lord has some serious daddy issues to deal with.
released OUT NOW! 12a | 136 minutes Director James Gunn Cast Chris Pratt, Zoe saldana, Kurt russell, dave Bautista
“Showtime, a-holes!” cries Peter Quill as Guardians Of The Galaxy Vol 2 prepares to explode around you like some colossal, candy-hued sugar-bomb. It’s a call to arms and a statement of intent for a sequel that’s brimming with swagger, loaded with the indestructible confidence of a film that knows what you love and just how to deliver it.
Cue titles. As ELO’s majestic “Mr Blue Sky” plays, its sweet ’70s genius reclaimed for the postguilty pleasure age, we’re treated to the kind of action setpiece that crowns the final act of your standard-issue blockbuster. Our mismatched heroes are battling a monstrous, interdimensional squid-beast that’s erupted from HP Lovecraft’s clammiest fever dreams, but that’s incidental detail, background distraction. James Gunn’s camera (and James Gunn’s heart) is focused squarely on ickle Baby Groot, who’s bopping like a mutant toddler. It’s a sequence that could only be more crowdpleasing if Mr Gunn reached out of the screen and hand-fed you biscuits.
Every frame, every beat of Vol 2 builds on the goodwill accrued by its predecessor. Once the outside bet of the Marvel Cinematic Universe – a talking raccoon? In space? – this franchise now moves like a slick, bankable entertainment machine, powered by a sassy, charismatic cast and Gunn’s own ironic sensibility, all near-to-the-knuckle gags and smirking pop culture callbacks.
But there’s a big heart beneath the Hasselhoff winks. Kurt Russell rocks up as Ego the Living Planet – a deep dive into Marvel lore in a film that delights in such obscurities – a cosmic deity that just happens to be Quill’s deadbeat dad. Set against this is the fractured sisterly bond between Gamora and Nebula, plus a movingly redemptive arc for Michael Rooker’s grizzled star pirate Yondu. “We’re family,” concludes Drax, rather labouring the point. But then he would.
It all moves at such a pace that it vomits ideas and visuals at the camera. You barely have time to wonder what a quantum asteroid might be before you’re hurled into the world of Contraxia, a snowy, neon-drenched Japanese fantasia. Ego’s world is a psychedelic candyland while the realm of the Sovereign is pure Flash Gordon retro, ruled by Elizabeth Debicki as a golden, Art Deco queen.
It’s frantic, frenetic, colourful, cocksure, kitsch. Sometimes you suspect it’s really a family-sized bag of Skittles disguised as a movie. But only an a-hole would deny it’s preposterously entertaining. Nick Setchfield