Don’t Look Up (2021)

Don’t Look Up suffers such naïve realism it sheds its enthusiasm like dander, seeming to embrace and, so far as embellish the shame of having to crowdsource an ego from metallurgical piss. Worse, its dyscalculic pertinacity flashes what—denial, displeasure, impregnable dreams—beneath its robe. It highlights an incorrigible twaddle and grimace at the expense of courtesy; yet most disconcertingly, it aims intentionally to cathect distressed constellations (of bad orders, of pledgees, of acrimonious nodes) like they are full of urgent mediocre honesty, like they are forthcoming, and even to laud this practice for its shambling chemistry—as promising and divisive a microscopy there ever was. It is defective, deadening, possessing a dumbfounding candour. For most of the film I wondered how long the enterprise would continue milking the waiting room, for how long it would keep signifying its babble for the sake of nuancing and pitying its begrudging thanatopsis. It palpates the histriome for lumps like it is under lock and key of sinuous pain, like it is dealing with a scarcity of pressure, a quixotic scansion, overindulgent hurts. Frankly, for however surprising its underhanded monotone, it is an obvious issue of the bald-faced suffrage and denialism of poverty, of a vile, treacherous, and, above-all, unoriginal curse which it refuses to abandon unless you acquiesce to its insipid tactics of table-setting and infantilism.