Power Rangers reboot begins like something from Warhammer 40,000: bruised and bloodied space marines crawl through the mud of an Earth wreathed in cataclysm, fire and debris raining all around. Suddenly, I'm excited. Fast-forward a minute later, and we're midway through a comedy sequence involving a delinquent jock (picture an off-brand Zac Efron) and accidental bovine masturbation. As a bull's penis dangled forlornly in front of the camera, excitement was replaced by a desperate yearning for the preening, harmless self-referential comedy of a Marvel film, even a jolt of nostalgia for the Christ-complex sincerity of something like Batman V Superman. Everything that Power Rangers gets so badly wrong about its own property can be summed up by sickening comedy and misplaced seriousness. Dean Israelite'sreboot begins like something from: bruised and bloodied space marines crawl through the mud of an Earth wreathed in cataclysm, fire and debris raining all around. Suddenly, I'm excited. Fast-forward a minute later, and we're midway through a comedy sequence involving a delinquent jock (picture an off-brand Zac Efron) and accidental bovine masturbation. As a bull's penis dangled forlornly in front of the camera, excitement was replaced by a desperate yearning for the preening, harmless self-referential comedy of a Marvel film, even a jolt of nostalgia for the Christ-complex sincerity of something like. Everything thatgets so badly wrong about its own property can be summed up by sickening comedy and misplaced seriousness.





Every sin committed stems from the misguided mindset of someone who believes that a franchise primarily concerned with camp, fruit gum-aesthetic abandon would be best revitalised with beastiality jokes, a subplot about slut-shaming and a running gag concerning the anal insertion of crayons.





Chronicle, the story focuses on a group of disparate teens (all variously interchangeable angst machines given the vaguest sheen of progressive diversity – I’ll get to that in a moment) find an underground chamber that gifts them superpowers. Unlike Chronicle, the drawback to these abilities isn't mental degradation, but eye-searingly unattractive armour that crowns the wearer a Power Ranger. Much like Josh Trank's, the story focuses on a group of disparate teens (all variously interchangeable angst machines given the vaguest sheen of progressive diversity – I’ll get to that in a moment) find an underground chamber that gifts them superpowers. Unlike, the drawback to these abilities isn't mental degradation, but eye-searingly unattractive armour that crowns the wearer a





Our wards in this join-the-dots origins story are a surprisingly diverse central circle: only one of the five is a straight white male (though, inevitably, he's the leader), another is autistic and one of the two women carries a suggestion of homosexuality. And that's the key word: suggestion. The diversity is underplayed, even negligible, with the non-white characters forced into roles that range from clichéd to problematic to outright eye-rolling. I'd probably have been able to stand the group as a whole if they didn't broadcast every single emotion with the conviction and depth of a Hot Topic t-shirt. During a low point, in which the team's illusion of heroism is shattered, the Pink Ranger (who chops off her hair because she's, like, rebellious, see?) sulks in a tank top emblazoned with 'It Was All A Dream'. I wish.





They're led to heroics by colour-coded crystals buried in the ground eons ago by Zordon (Bryan Cranston), a pin art-faced ex-Ranger whose consciousness is sealed in a wall. Bill Hader gets the thankless task of voicing Alpha 5, a dwarfish CG robot with the grating disposition of Roger Rabbit. Both deliver exposition so focus-grouped you can practically hear 'registered trademark' after every noun.





Elizabeth Banks (silently screaming a plea for help from beneath the makeup) plays Rita Repulsa, a galactic sorceress intent on destroying Earth using the Zeo Crystal, a magical McGuffin buried beneath (and I promise I'm not making this up) a famous texture-branded doughnut cafe. We're not talking James Bond and his contractual swig of Heineken here: the product placement is obnoxious to the point of distraction. If you're prone to bouts of second-hand embarrassment and insist on seeing this film, bail before the climax. The brand name is muttered, shrieked and shouted by half a dozen characters, the villainess herself taking a break during the final confrontation for a quick nibble, napkins and all.





Predictably, it's a more entertaining sight than the bust-up itself, which resembles a toddler smacking two action figures together in a sandpit. This movie exists primarily to sell said toys and fails even in that regard, because the suits, robots and creatures are unspeakably poor. Having worked in a toy shop recently, I thought my early exposure would be adequate preparation, but on-screen the awfulness is horrendously magnified. When they show up to save the day, I remain surprised (and dismayed) that their arrival isn't greeted with a swift military strike in place of the intended exultation.



