'The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes' briefing

3 (out of 4)

            Ah, The Hunger Games, a world where not one person is skin and bones as far as the eye can see — where’s a skeletal Joaquin or Christian Bale performance when you need it?

This was just about the only YA franchise to not only match Harry Potter money domestically but unbelievably outdo it — basically Katniss’s weakest day bested Potter’s average. Since the real cinematic stopping point for wizards is 2011 (God bless if, like me, you watched all three Fantastic Beasts waiting for ANYTHING), the Suzanne Collins’ adaptations themselves were the only worthwhile young adult series quality-wise too, taking cue from the Deathly Hallows trend of two-part finales, getting the most of their money just as other movies did at the time, your Twilights and Hobbits. Not undone by ripped-off, tangential, unfulfilled generic crap (Maze Runner, which doesn't justify its mysteries and Divergent, with little mysteries to speak of), The Hunger Games remains at the top of the teen dystopian dogpile — F. Gary Gray’s first film was budgeted modestly by Lionsgate (whose only other major, even more respectable franchise has become John Wick) and was a runaway success right out the gate — Catching Fire was greater than the original in profits and movie magic, elevating the first film’s template and stakes very comfortably while cleaning up the initial shaky-cam cinematography.

It’s all about the Battle Royale-lifted structure for a PG-13 place setting, which lends itself to the least graphic sort of choppy violence, as well as easy commentary on politics, war and the human condition — all that discourse, satire, glam-rock pageantry and buildup to an extended early finale, as the formula goes. The games were usually half the film, making both sides of Mockingjay disappointing if you were in it for thrills, and even the themes became more forward and heavy-handed than before. All this to say, starting with Catching Fire, it’s been Frank Marshall (of Constantine, I Am Legend and another J Law collab, the sultry, self-possessed spysploitation film Red Sparrow) in charge. His return — and especially since he was unable to save the business decision products of parts One and Two of the original series’ conclusion — made me think of a David Yates-equivalent stooge about to work out some truly repugnant cash-grab like Fantastic Beasts (take your pick) after managing most of the main movies. But as an individual installment no one asked for, The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes is a damn engrossing watch, falling between the narrative riskiness and pontification of Mockingjay and the traditional satisfaction of the first two features. It works as bleak commentary, character-actor playground, escapist mini-blockbuster and decently involving long-form tragic romance.

But speaking of unnecessary prequels harboring love story sap going on for way too long, more than anything this made George Lucas’s early episodes look even more hilarious because you know what? I actually bought this romance even as it fizzles out in seconds — Songbirds slyly accomplished more than Attack of the Clones and Revenge of the Sith put together. By the last act of Episode III it feels like Darth goes from 0 to 100, from desperate wife-saver to yellow-eyed child-murderer, but here you may actually forget Snow's inevitable destination. I was just following Coriolanus and I’m not sure I buy that he’s super complicit — I get that the exhibition of underage blood sport hadn’t quite become this civilization’s Super Bowl yet and this guy is the smarmy asshole in the ad department throwing out crass suggestions disguised as noble ones (“uh... let’s care about the people!?”), to which the head honcho goes “hm...genius!" On those terms this movie is quite stupid but in the minutia of world-building, most of Panem’s corners are well-considered.

Though it’s probably worse for pointing out, the reinforced cycles of violence and revolution feel pretty timely in light of the recent eruption of Middle Eastern conflicts — even without Israel-Palestine for backdrop, these were always fairly odd, dour pop entertainment. I feel as if the weaker reviews are a result of a spacious, venturous Act Three, which cuts the games off and puts you through tests of patience if you didn’t care two licks about these newly developed characters. You may walk away confused as to if you really watched Snow (felt out by a talented Tom Blyth) become Donald Sutherland’s dastardly dictator (didn’t like that parting, inserted voice-over copied over from Catching Fire) or whether he was the prickly president all along, but this villainous rise is so honorably resistant to sticking to the trend of twisted empathy for antagonists that aren’t ALL bad IF they had horrible things done to them — Songbirds and Snakes almost becomes a neat psychological thriller on top of it all by its final moments via well-employed ambiguity.

Though representation is one of those cinematic brownie points modern movies love to earn, here it all fits — the young girl with Down syndrome Sofia Sanchez and amputee Knox Gibson make for believable tributes. Then Hunter Schafer looks so similar to Blyth that they’re dead ringers for siblings — as the most prominent transgender actress around, she passes and plays the posh part well, echoing Elizabeth Banks’ Effie. Peter Dinklage was delightful, did you expect less? Viola Davis was likewise hamming it up splendidly but the coup de gras was the hilarious Jason Schwartzman, who gave me six good laughs, every time cementing Ballad’s sharp, pre-aged/retro-future satirical side, possibly outdoing Stanley Tucci’s absurdly bombastic TV-guru turn, like fictional father like fictional son. Then from the clunky, chunky subtitle I expected some serenades, or at the very least a few ditties, and Marshall doesn’t deny you. Rachel Zegler’s lovely voice works much better belting Joan Baez-like folk songs rather than speaking with a suspicious twang. Whether lovely a cappella, country-eyed, hee-haw stomps or some just good-ol' banjo-backed blues, the needle drops are aces outside of her first cringy protest moment.

I couldn’t believe this didn’t feel like some greedy, retreading franchise jumpstart — as far as I know there’s only one prequel Collins has penned, unless she decides Hamitch (Woody Harrelson onscreen) needed his own illustrated backstory called Sunrise on the Reaping. This Hunger Games has a registered maturity, profuse entertainment value and a tween story of unexpected dramatic and emotional clarity. All my indifference was contentedly washed away by Ballad’s continual catchiness.