Produces so many ideas about how bad that it is, it's impossible to keep track of what that it is.xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
From the blurry 1080p-rendered 'special' eff-ects (1970s Star Wars landcruisers looked less of the past), to Spaceballs playdough stop-motion caricature-effects, there is nearly as much movie in the sideways glanc-es, at the open cellphones in the dark than there is, to be extracted from watching Denzel's progen-y, looking at the movie he thinks he's mak-ing (or, rather, the 5000-interleaved mini-scene movies that comprises its husk).

In the end, its a just fight, between Musk's Neuralink, his AI-children, and Blue Origin, whose expensive tech-wreckers Bezos's colluseum did drive, straight across the expanse of Gulliver's isl-and; between dumb human groups exploding to none, to express nothing less than the cloyingly lame; and the incomprehensible porno-graphy of the copulating human and his dead AI friend--immediately seen, facially recog-nized--all foiled together, in orange-tinged smoke.

A plutonium attractor, yes sir indeed, there's one for each child, born in test tube; an inferno of citation for Christopher No-lan; what's left for the rest of us is not hard to see; it's up and a way, yes, golly gee; to the extent there's a brain a will and a rhyme; among those who still can make all the sense in the world; to intuit the firm limit of graphic pretense; of a cinema spect-a-cle drained of sub-stance; the one thing to know is simple to grasp: if you want a good movie--its all in the cast.

So help us God.