Score: 1.5 / 5
What happens in a not-so-distant future where the earth's overpopulation provokes scientists to shrink people? That's the launching concept for Downsizing, the season's eco-friendly film that might actually hurt more than help its audience. Why? Because it stinks.
An intriguing idea does not a movie make, and for all its suggestive precepts, Downsizing dissolves into a preachy, superficial "do good" movie about a middle-aged paunchy Matt Damon in khakis learning to not be so naive and get involved with an activist. Unfortunately, it's only nominally about social justice, as he also falls in love with her, does some drugs, tries to join a hippie commune in an underground bunker, and ultimately try to help shrunken people living in the slums. Between lengthy diatribes about the benefits of "downsizing", as the shrinking procedure is called -- almost exclusively, the benefits are monetary, as the cost of living 12 centimeters tall is so much less -- and tiresome exposition about the world dying, it's hard to take much of the proceedings seriously. Even the green-minded, socially woke people of the audience will find this mishmash hard to choke down.
Why? Partly because there is just so much being preached at us, none of which is very subtle. Partly, too, because there's an air of satire that is never quite clarified, and so we're not always sure which parts we're meant to take as a joke. Mostly, however, the film fails because of its pretentious delivery. It's an exhaustingly polished movie, shiny and new, that feels awe-inspiring until you realize there's nothing awesome about a giant butterfly, a large yellow rose, or the opulent excesses of Leisureland, the upscale neighborhood for the miniature nouveau riche. There's nothing inspirational about seeing a distinctly privileged Matt Damon attempting to help Vietnamese and sundry non-white people living in the slums, only to have them disappear in the next scene with only a calloused "She die" as a eulogy.
The punchlines often fall flat while the gags that succeed are so overwrought that you're not even sure if they're funny anymore. A notable one includes Hong Chau as Damon's love interest, who monologues about the seven kinds of "fucks". By the time you're done giggling about a peg-legged Vietnamese activist repeating phrases like "angry fuck" and "pity fuck", you realize that the whole thing is empty and ludicrous, if not outright insulting. But who is the butt of these jokes? We are, I suspect, who have paid for tickets to see this movie.
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