The Suicide Squad

The Symphony of the Discarded

In the modern cinematic landscape, superhero films usually operate on the scale of gods. They are polished myths about perfect beings fighting for abstract ideals of justice. But James Gunn’s *The Suicide Squad* (2021) is not interested in gods. It is a film obsessed with the gutter, a chaotic, blood-soaked hymn dedicated to the broken, the weird, and the utterly expendable. Gunn takes the "product" nature of the genre—where characters are often treated as interchangeable assets—and turns it into the text itself. The result is a work that questions the very nature of worthiness in a world that treats human life like debris.

Visually, the film is a rebellion against the desaturated "cement sludge" aesthetic that plagued much of the genre's output in the preceding decade. Gunn’s lens is tactile and grimy, yet exploding with color. When Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie) slaughters her way through a hallway of guards, the blood doesn't spray as red mist; it erupts as a psychedelic shower of animated flowers and birds. It is a jarring, beautiful choice that forces us to see the world through her fractured psyche, reminding us that for these characters, violence is not just a tool, but a language—sometimes the only one they speak.

However, the film’s true subversion lies in its antagonist. The giant alien starfish, Starro the Conqueror, is a ridiculous Silver Age comic concept brought to terrifying life. Yet, as the layers of the narrative peel back, we realize the "monster" is not the invader, but the victim. Starro was happy "floating, staring at the stars" until American imperialism dragged it down to be tortured in a secret black-site prison. The film’s sharpest blade is reserved for the United States government, represented by Amanda Waller (Viola Davis), who uses these villains not to save the world, but to cover up American war crimes. The "heroes" are sent to destroy evidence of their own country's sins, framing the narrative as a biting critique of interventionist foreign policy.

Amidst this geopolitical cynicism beats a profoundly human heart, primarily carried by Ratcatcher 2 (Daniela Melchior). In a genre obsessed with strength, her power is connection with the lowest creatures on earth. Her philosophy—"Rats are the lowliest and most despised of all creatures, my love. If they have purpose, so do we all"—serves as the film’s thesis statement. Gunn argues that value is not intrinsic to power or status; it is found in the community of the unwanted.

This is best exemplified in the tragic arc of Polka-Dot Man (David Dastmalchian), a character who should be a punchline. Instead, Gunn treats his trauma with surprising tenderness, turning a ridiculous power set into a manifestation of maternal abuse. When these broken toys finally unite, it isn't out of a sense of duty, but a desperate need to prove that they exist, that they matter, even if the world wants them dead.

*The Suicide Squad* is a raucous, violent tragedy that manages to be more emotionally resonant than films with ten times the budget and half the body count. It is a reminder that in a cinema defined by perfection, there is a messy, undeniable beauty in being flawed.