fannysbayoysters

This true crime doc is narrator by a Mayballine ad spokesperson. It's like listening to a donkey explain what's it like to be a chicken. Or like when filmmakers use a nonhuman voice to tell a human story. This proves that any true crime doc worth its salt should only by narrated by narrators who've done murder themselves. The only thing this narrator has murdered is my Sunday evening. And the narrator doesn't even have to do a salacious murder. They could get their pet owl to do it, or their foolish 18 year old hardbody boyfriend. With his abs all as sharp like kitchen knives. Always wearing no shirt and his pants riding so low that that one part of his muscled pelvis is confusingly unmissable. You know, that hunk of meat just above his low waistline that you don't know what it's for, but you can't imagine it not being there? Like a handle for a door that only pushes. A push-handle.

If this film didn't hit you over the head with so many songs in the first twenty minutes, with so many back-to-back songs in the first twenty minutes, which were clearly filmed first and sequentially linear according to the script, as noted by Mr. Reynolds' and Mr Farrell's dance chemistry, which begins like a soggy nacho punking a wet bag, but by films' end is like a toucan gracefully mounting a rainbow, if the first twenty minutes didn't rely so much on song to info dump plot on us, and was rewritten to better allow characters to not sing, and carried us a good forty-five minutes into the film, all the while allowing characters to arc and the plot to palsy in a generally upward direction, until an appropriate moment presented itself for the cast to sing, as the song conforms to the plot, without the plot conforming to the song, and was edited by Molly Marlene Stensgård, and was directed by Ivo Van Hove, and had a panto cameo by Bruno Gerusi, this film would be dope.

The only island happening here is the island of laurbriggs and wellyforpm, spilling your datenight rhetoric all over Will Arnett's silky baritone.

Maybe those fir trees are tired of being fir trees, maybe they wanna be a spruce for a day. Maybe those eagles just wanna ef with eating their young for a bit. Maybe Will Arnett wants to be Richard Attenborough for a sesh. David Attenborough? Richard Attenborough.

Same for those husky coyotes, Cedar and Dagger--are they anthropomorphized? Maybe. But maybe we're asking the wrong questions. Maybe we should be asking Grandfather Netlix if we're just animalpomorphized humans? Derp.