Writer/Director David Ayer did a fine job scribing Training Day and, to a lesser extent, Fury, but in his hands—and under the auspices of toxin Zack Snyder—Suicide Squad is a hot mess. Cheesy and clangy and distracted throughout, it reminds me of the horrific centerpiece in Man of Steel: a pointless, vacuous 45-minute street fight that felt like a Transformers movie directed by a child off Ritalin.
Worse, Zack Snyder's fingerprints are all over this Hindenburg, which ruined Batman v Superman, too, and the aforementioned Man of Steel, and virtually everything else he's touched with the exception of 300, which was a blast and his proverbial one hit [wonder].
Someone should repossess Snyder's artistic license posthaste, because everything he is touching is turning to poo. He has the Midas touch, all right, it's just opposite day.
Here's hoping he gets his mojo back with Wonder Woman, The Flash, and Aquaman before he (rather than some farfetched fictitious antagonist) singlehandedly destroys the entire DC Comics universe.
And don't get me started on Margot Robbie (who's ruinously reminding me of Britt Robertson), Viola Davis (whose stern overacting here is eerily reminiscent of How to Get Away with Murder and makes me long for The Help), Jai Courtney (who repeatedly fails to act his way out of a paper bag), Cara Delevingne (who, in the same way some have "a face for radio" has "a face for modeling," period), and Jared Leto (who, regrettably, does little more here than make me miss Heath Ledger like it was 2008).
I suppose you'll see Suicide Squad anyway, and I'm okay with that. Just don't pee on my shoe and tell me it's raining.