First things first, how on earth did this get greenlit? Was this some late-90s Fox TV Movie Night pitch that Marvel accidentally stumbled across in the archives? Because that’s the only way this bizarre fever dream makes sense. It’s like someone thought, “Hey, what if we took the plot coherence of a PowerPoint presentation made by a sleep-deprived intern and combined it with the pacing of a sugar-addicted child who just discovered Red Bull? Genius!” And yet, here we are. Watching it. Suffering through it.
The plot—or whatever approximation of a plot this is—revolves around not one, not two, but three Captain Marvels. That’s right, THREE. As if one wasn’t already polarizing enough, Marvel decided to throw in Kamala Khan (aka Ms. Marvel, a high school fangirl who seems to have wandered in from a completely different, more charming show) and Monica Rambeau, who has superpowers, a strained history with Carol Danvers, and about as much screen presence as a shadow in a well-lit room. Why did Marvel think this trio was a good idea? No clue. Maybe they assumed three semi-developed characters would somehow combine to form one cohesive protagonist. Spoiler: they don’t.
The central conceit of the movie is that these three Marvels are quantumly entangled, meaning they keep swapping places every time they use their powers. Sounds fun, right? Wrong. The swapping gimmick quickly goes from “quirky” to “confusing” faster than you can say, “Who’s writing this mess?” The constant teleportation and body-swapping isn’t just a plot device—it’s the entire movie. Watching them pinball around the galaxy while barely comprehending their own predicament feels like sitting in the backseat of a road trip where no one knows where they’re going. Oh, and let’s not forget the time travel. So much time travel. At one point, I wondered if the characters were literally trying to escape their own movie. Frankly, I wouldn’t blame them.
And then there’s Captain Marvel herself, Carol Danvers, played once again by Brie Larson with all the emotional range of a slightly annoyed houseplant. Look, I get it—she’s supposed to be stoic, cool, and powerful. But Larson’s performance here is so detached, so robotic, it’s like watching someone who’s mildly inconvenienced by being a superhero. She’s essentially the “manager” of this three-person team, the one who’s constantly exasperated while everyone else tries to inject some semblance of personality into this mess. Kamala Khan (played by Iman Vellani) is the sole spark of life in this film, her fangirl energy providing a few genuinely fun moments. But even she can’t carry this monstrosity on her own. And poor Monica Rambeau (Teyonah Parris)? She’s just… there. A collection of vague powers, unresolved emotional baggage, and zero charisma.
Let’s talk visuals, because surely a movie like this would at least look good, right? Well, kind of. The CGI budget was clearly massive, but the results? Inconsistent at best, laughable at worst. Some scenes are so over-saturated with effects that they feel like rejected sequences from a Spy Kids movie. Others are so bland and gray that you might think you’re watching a PS3 cutscene. It’s baffling. They spent $250 million on this, folks. And yet, somehow, the most memorable visual in the film is a stray cat vomiting up an alien McGuffin. Truly groundbreaking.
The script, if we’re calling it that, is another disaster entirely. The dialogue oscillates between forced quips, awkward exposition, and half-hearted attempts at emotional depth. Some lines are so cheesy, I half-expected the actors to break the fourth wall and apologize directly to the audience. And don’t even get me started on the villain, who’s so bland and underwritten that I can’t even remember her name. She’s essentially a dollar-store version of Hela from Thor: Ragnarok, minus the charisma, the backstory, or any compelling reason to care about her evil plan.
Now, let’s address the elephant in the room: the film’s "woke" undertones. Look, I’m all for representation and diversity in media—when it’s done well. But The Marvels doesn’t feel like a thoughtful, inclusive story. It feels like a corporate checklist. Diverse characters? Check. Female empowerment? Check. Now let’s just slap it together and hope nobody notices that the story has all the depth of a kiddie pool. It’s pandering, not progressive, and it’s insulting to the audience’s intelligence.
And oh, the pacing. Good lord, the pacing. The movie whizzes by at such a breakneck speed that you barely have time to process what’s happening before you’re thrown into the next poorly lit set piece. It’s exhausting. By the 27-minute mark, I had to tap out—not because I wasn’t trying, but because my sanity demanded it. At that point, I figured punching myself in the dick was a better use of my time than sitting through another second of this nonsense.
To put things in perspective, for a long stretch in Hollywood history, the Marvel Cinematic Universe was synonymous with quality blockbusters. They were practically bulletproof. But The Marvels is proof that even giants can fall—and fall hard. Despite grossing over $200 million worldwide, this movie still ranks as one of the biggest box office bombs of all time, losing Disney a reported $237 million. And honestly? I can see why. Between Bob Iger blaming “a lack of oversight” and fans blaming Disney’s bloated budgets and over-saturation of MCU content, there’s plenty of blame to go around. But at the end of the day, the fault lies with the film itself. It’s just not good.
So, should you watch The Marvels? Only if you’re a hardcore MCU completionist or if you enjoy watching expensive train wrecks. For everyone else, skip it. Save yourself the time, the money, and the soul-crushing disappointment. Watch Endgame again. Or better yet, watch literally anything else. Because trust me, even an 8-hour documentary about drywall would be more entertaining than this cosmic catastrophe.