In a saga that’s survived Trade Federation blockades, Empire strikes and imperial zombie villain retreads of the First Order, no menace, phantom or otherwise, has single-handedly deadened the Star Wars universe more than the new TV-to-big screen adaptation featuring a helmeted warrior and a cute green puppet. In a multimedia collection rife with spinoffs, series, sequels, prequels, fan fiction, flash forwards and even a once-aired holiday variety show, Jon Favreau’s misbegotten The Mandalorian and Grogu (F) may be the murkiest, dullest and most joyless entry yet. Everything in this film is bottom of the barrel, from plot to characterization to effects; it almost dares viewers to convince themselves they’re not watching as big a big-screen turkey as a summer movie can possibly be (Last Action Hero or Battlefield Earth, take a seat!). The story is simple enough as the titular bounty hunter (voiced by Pedro Pascal) and his diminutive companion must rescue and return Rotta the Hutt, the Jeremy Allen White-voiced prizefighter progeny of the late Jabba, to the clutches of gangster twins running his family’s lair. Foster teen Rotta, a space slug with abs as convincing as the char marks of a McRib and dialogue someone should have edited before the rendering of his considerable CGI contours, deserves his place in a disgraceful pantheon occupied by Child Anakin and Jar Jar Binks as one of the series’ most ill-conceived and nearly unwatchable occupants of celluloid space. Pound for pound, he’s the first sign this flop sweat of a film is Hutt hurt and circling the drain. Prepare for scene after torturous sequence of battles against an array of creatures with few discernible features including a showdown with what could easily pass as a Transformer (Bumblebee could sue somebody’s AI platform for unfair use of likeness) and lots of sea snakes from the trash compactor dumpster fire imagination of the film’s three screenwriters. The uninspired planetary environments in the film’s treacly travelogue will not easily sway many viewers they weren’t actually filmed in the Galactic Edge theme parks. All the jaw-dropping missteps – hell, even Martin Scorsese stinks up his scene as a four-armed food truck vendor (yes, that happens) – could be forgiven if there were heart, heroism or humor to enliven the proceedings. The film even fails at giving anyone a reason to care about its two title characters; no one will confuse these guys with Butch and Sundance or even Ecks vs. Sever. As “Baby Yoda” eats blue macarons, there’s a sinking feeling money-grubbers in search of the next butter beer style merch might have gotten their way if any of this high-flying hokum was even remotely cool. Ultimately it truly feels like a complete chore to watch this, and I come to these popcorn adventures, AMC promo Nicole Kidman style, ready to be swept off my shimmering pantsuit feet into a carefree romp headspace. Instead heartbreak really does hit different here. That aforementioned Trade Federation should plan a tax write-off on this horrible episode as both its dreary content and poor box office prospects are destined for a certain kind of notoriety.
