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*/**** starring Hugh Bonneville, Emily Mortimer, Julie Walters, Ben Whishaw screenplay by Mark Burton, Jon Foster & James Lamont directed by Dougal Wilson
by Walter Chaw Remember that episode of “The Brady Bunch” where the gang goes to Hawaii and finds a cursed Tiki idol? That was hilarious. What I mean is it was memorably not hilarious, a brazen and desperate last gasp at relevance and invention that is held up alongside the “Happy Days” where Fonzie waterskis over a shark as shorthand for what happens when a beloved institution runs out of ideas: the death wave of a drowning man. Anyway, the third instalment of the Paddington franchise uproots the Browns of Windsor Gardens and drops them in the middle of a rainforest in search of a horrifying convent filthy with energetic British nuns given to random outbursts of song that are less delightful than pointedly aggressive. Imagine Olivia Colman, dialled to 11, decked out in full habit, keening a single, held high note for a full 20 seconds, and you have a small taste of the unpleasantness of this probably unintentional nunsploitation horror. Call it “Bleak Narcissus.” Gone is the charm of the previous Paddingtons, and with it the focus on absolute patience and kindness that made this series such a balm to the brutal and inconsiderate hell of our day-to-day. In its place? A jungle quest punctuated by elaborate pratfalls as cuddly Paddington (voiced by Ben Whishaw) tries to recover his dementia-addled Great Aunt Lucy (Imelda Staunton) from an unplanned walkabout in the wilderness of Peru. The step down from gentle grace to broad slapstick is an ankle-breaker.
To facilitate their journey upriver, the Browns hire unctuous riverboat captain Hunter Cabot (Antonio Banderas) and his plucky Dora the Explorer daughter/sidekick Gina (Carla Tous), who is there largely to appeal to the Robin demographic of the Batman-and-Robin dyad, I suppose. She’s absent at the long expository dinner sequence until well into it, at which point she provides a key narrative entry by asking a dumb question at the perfect time. Turns out, Paddington has an ancient bracelet with clues on it pointing the way to the lost city of El Dorado, making Paddington in Peru both a member of the Jungle Cruise franchise and, disturbingly, the Aguirre, The Wrath of God universe. Captain Cabot talks to the ghosts of his ancestors (one punchline is that they all look like him, including (snicker) a woman), and in a particularly horrifying moment, he conspires to ditch his daughter in the forest like Aguirre does that horse, the fate of whom I have thought about every day for the past maybe 30 years. Do you think it’s funny when a father abandons his kid to certain death? Me, too! I even enjoyed the whimsical shipwreck sequence in a rocky rapids aswarm with piranha. Hilarious. Exhausting.
The whole film is exhausting: boring, interminable lore-telling intercut with elaborate set-pieces showcasing Paddington’s clumsiness and cupidity. “A hammock must not see you approaching!” he declares adorably before all kinds of TikTok shenanigans involving a bear trying to get into a hammock ensue–and did you see Paddington trying to take some photos for his passport in a photo booth? It is to larf. A bear using money? And wearing a hat? How do people come up with this stuff? Dougal Wilson takes over directing duties from Paul King and imports his house style (the whip-pans and smash-zooms) while losing the previous films’ Wes Anderson sense of an insular, dollhouse world. Paddington isn’t Curious George, alas; his place is in civilization, dissecting the social mores and manners of a stodgy and comfortable British middle-class, not on safari, taking the piss out of…colonialism? Tomb-raiding? I have no idea. Part of the problem may be that the perils are real in Peru, so the film’s essential gentleness is grating rather than comforting. “Yes, he’s very nice, but they’re all going to die”–be it at the hands of insane missionary nuns or a psychotic boat captain or a hive of carnivorous ants. All would’ve been forgiven if Paddington in Peru were funny or a full hour shorter. Let me put it this way: I didn’t want this sequel, but now I hope there’s a fourth film just to wash the taste of this one out of my mouth. I’d also take a marmalade sandwich.
