Movie Review: How Do I Loathe “Mary Poppins Returns?” Let Me Count The Ways

[usr 1.5]
 

Decades after her original visit, the magical nanny returns to help the Banks siblings and Michael’s children through a difficult time in their lives.

To avoid any confusion, let me start off by stating that I absolutely hate “Mary Poppins Returns.” Loathe every whimsical second of it. I wish I could also state that it is redeemed by its central performance, but literally everything surrounding it is so nonsensical and hammy and forced and ugly, the film ends up doing a disservice to Emily Blunt’s radiance instead, now one of the sole blemishes in her quite impeccable career – yet far from a minor one. No, this is more of a gargantuan stain, a malignant tumor that refuses to go away.

I know what you’re thinking: “It can’t be that bad, you cynical prick.” And you know what, I would not be shocked if audiences lapped this up. Nostalgia will drive older crowds to theaters, while the young ‘uns will be magnetized by the power of Disney, awaiting a grand spectacle. What they’ll get is “A Wrinkle in Time” redux, a collection of disparate, ear-and-eye-cringing scenes, pasted together in a wild attempt at some sort of a plot. Most are likely to oversee that, as they will be too busy spotting the references to the original, shocked into a stupor by the seizure-inducing visuals and musical numbers containing the dumbest/most obvious of lyrics. In those tumultuous times, they may even disregard the stupidity and embrace, if nothing else, the unadulterated joy this “Mary Poppins” hammers into heads with the parrot-shaped knob of her umbrella.

Where do I start? All of the supposedly humorous lines diffuse into air; even the crickets are silent. The central plot involving property repossession and the death of a loved one is as clichéd as plots get. Upon Poppins’ arrival, things just… happen, a kaleidoscopic slide into madness (and not the good, trippy kind), with message upon message blared at the highest pitch. I get that small children are its target audience – but that doesn’t excuse its idiocy; just look at “Inside Out” or “The Neverending Story” to name two disparate children’s films.

And the whimsy – God, the whimsy. I’m not a fan of musicals – I never understood the emotion all this forced “breaking into dance” is meant to evoke – but I truly attempt to review them objectively, and there are even a few that I love (“Singing in the Rain” or “Chicago” to name two disparate ones). But here the whimsy chokes, suffocates, and bleeds you dry.

Lin Manuel Miranda’s performance as Jack takes most of the blame. I can’t recall the last time I saw less honest, gratingly off-key acting and singing. Perhaps he should’ve written his own tunes (a rapping Poppins?) As for his pseudo-Cockney accent – the less said about it, the better. Emily Mortimer as the grown-up Jane – and Jack’s lackluster love interest – is mostly delegated to the background, which is a shame, because her whiny, uber-earnest sibling Michael (Ben Whishaw) gets most of the screen time, and he comes close to Jack on the insufferable scale. Then there are the three awful children – both as characters and actors – whose wince-worthy attempts at cuteness induce gags as opposed to “aws.” Meryl Streep’s Topsy is the spoiled cherry on top, the formidable actress hamming it up under thick layers of abominable make-up. Poor Emily Blunt. Her sophisticated, cheeky Poppins – and surprisingly good singing chops, despite the awful tunes/lines – simply cannot carry all this chaos on her shoulders – or in her bottomless bag, for that matter, which is also barely touched upon for some reason.

“Mary Poppins Returns” does, indeed, return – to the original, 1964 feature, frequently referencing it, relying so heavily on it that it utterly loses its own identity. None of this gels. There is nary a semblance of chemistry between any of the characters – most evidently between Mary and the grown-up siblings, whose reunion, one would assume, should’ve been explored in much greater depth. Instead, we get a horrible CGI sequence involving our protagonists being flushed down a bathtub drain, followed by an even worse, hand-drawn one. While I would normally appreciate the throwback animation, the “inside the porcelain bowl” bit is perhaps the most jarringly hideous part of the film, as if all the animators disagreed on the characters and flow of events, resulting in utter mayhem; all the while, it seems to think it immerses us into a Van Gogh masterpiece.

My wife didn’t want me to spew hate about “Mary Poppins Returns” after I came back from the screening. She loves the original. “Let me see it first,” she said, “and then we can discuss it.” Fine, I refuse to speak about it. I refuse to speak about how pissed I was at the balloon-flight sequence. I won’t delve into Colin Firth’s by-the-numbers villain, Wilkins, or the fact that both Dick Van Dyke and Angela Lansbury return – along with “Mary Poppins” – and STILL manage to seem like they were dragged into it – either by Mickey-shaped pitchforks or abundant amounts of cash. I won’t divulge how much I feared for Van Dyke’s health, as I watched Mr. Dawes do a little dance routine on a table; bless his heart.

I will, however, proclaim that I was endlessly annoyed by how obvious Disney is in capitalizing on our nostalgia, without infusing the film with so much as a shred of originality. Instead, it adopts a surprisingly traditional approach, where every beat feels both worn and haphazardly glued together, with a shiny coating of polish applied to hide the cracks. This was one of the first major blockbusters in a long time that I almost gave up on halfway through. The experience was torturous. It’ll probably win 11 Oscars.

In theaters Friday, December 19th