By: Felix Felicis (Six Pack) –
There comes a time in everyone’s life when they endure something so harsh, so bleak, so utterly devoid of hope, that it makes them take a good, hard look at the choices which lead that idiot to the aforementioned soul-sucking black hole of an event. Accidentally murdering a basket full of kittens would qualify; so would purchasing a ticket to Illuminata Picture’s latest box office typhoon of suck, The Wild Life. How this festering wound on the backside of cinema has a 40% on Rotten Tomatoes is beyond me, unless that rating reflects how much your intelligence decreases after watching the animated Cleveland Steamer of a kiddie flick. Seriously, sign me up for one of those before making me endure The Wild Life again… Sign me up for five.
The Wild Life follows plucky parrot Tuesday as he narrates the animated retcon about what really happened to Robinson Crusoe the world has always wanted, nay, longed for. For those who have no idea who Robinson Crusoe is, have I got the movie for you! A mild-mannered seafaring gentleman and his faithful dog get shipwrecked on an island with some evil cats and a motley assortment of animals only logically found together in a children’s movie and/or homegrown zoo. Crusoe learns how to survive, with the help of intelligent and super helpful wildlife, all the while longing to leave those desolate shores (I’m assuming to ever get laid again). Also his dog dies in a fire. Sadly Crusoe doesn’t John Wick the island in a fountain of blood (more’s the pity). Something happens, something else happens (I’ll be honest I may have blacked out for self-preservation) a showdown with those evil cats goes down, pirates rescue then toss Crusoe’s ass back to sea, the movie ends with no follow up or any kind of resolution for those unfamiliar with the story of Robinson Crusoe, everyone inside (me, probably just me) slinks off to the nearest bar to get hammered. The End.
I almost laughed once. Almost.
After experiencing the visual eyegasm and utterly breathtaking Laika release, Kubo and The Two Strings, The Wild Life is like watching drunk sock puppets with terrible British accents steal 90 minutes of your life like cats (and Kardashians) steal your soul when you sleep. If Dora the Explorer and Madagascar got wasted and anger-banged, The Wild Life (and it’s sub-par animation) is what bursts from your chest, Alien-style, nine months and three voodoo curses later.
The screenplay for The Wild Life was 100% written by sedated Koala bears snorting crushed up Ritalin in an attempt to feel something, anything, again. There wasn’t even an outline of where a fresh, creative narrative could’ve been, just a sad clown hooker looking for one last BJ to make rent. There aren’t words for how painful, uncreative, cookie-cutter, and soulless this dialogue was.
The Wild Life is a placeholder film. This is a virtual babysitter for parents to park their spawn in front of when the unbearable weight of being responsible for another person’s every waking moment becomes too much. Basically, if you’re ready to sell your soul for 90 minutes of quiet time, this is the movie willing to take your money. I almost respect its “gives no fucks” about being a quality family film (in the same way that I “respect” The Bachelor for being a “real” place to find love).
Bachelor In Paradise, however, is a national fucking treasure of overtly cheesy fakeness (long may you air).
I mean, given the absolute level of bare minimum effort anyone involved in The Wild Life put out, can we really be surprised that there were giant, gaping adaptive plot holes? The Wild Life was a re-telling of the original fictional work of Robinson Crusoe like Ryan Lochte’s version of getting mugged in Rio was related to the truth: loosely and barely at all. Even within the bits of the original story (leaving out slavery and cannibalism because, like, ew) deemed harmless enough to turn into AN ANIMATED CHILDREN’S MOVIE, literally none of this shitty narrative made sense. Or got resolved. At all. So fuck us very much, I guess.
THIS SHIT WAS NINETY MINUTES LONG. NINETY. MINUTES. LONG. The Wild Life was a bloated cinematic wildebeest rotting on the plains of a silver screen Serengeti that not even the starving lions would touch. I don’t even know how the writers inflated this sad balloon of dead dreams long enough to pop the last of my dignity, much less for roughly the time it takes for me to regret every decision in my life that led to the moment I purchased a ticket to this shitshow, but they did, somehow they did. You could have shaved 30 to 60 minutes off of this thing and still had about as much of a coherent narrative as they did with every one of the 5,400 seconds of my life The Wild Life stole. Not only was this movie a waste of time, energy and short term memory, it was an aggressively, legitimately, absolutely pointless exercise in kidsploitation. Just because something is animated, just because it has cute talking animals and a G-Rating DOES NOT GIVE STUDIOS THE EXCUSE TO PHONE IT IN FOR A QUICK BUCK. The more these kinds of movies make money, the more these kinds of movies will get made. Starve them out. Keep your cash and wait for a worthwhile experience.
Fuck you, Wild Life, super fuck you.
The Wild Life is the ideal movie for coma patients, raging insomniacs, and/or people you passive-agressively hate. I’ve never wanted to stab myself repeatedly in the eye with a rusty spork over the course of ninety minutes more. Take a hard pass on this cinematic dumpster fire and see literally anything else.
The Wild Life (2016) Drinking Game
Take a Sip: whenever you hear Tuesday the parrot narrating.
Do a Shot: every time Robinson Crusoe gets tossed on or off a ship.
Take a Drink: every time the cats fuck shit up.
Shotgun your Beer: for the biggest bonfire ever.