Chris Payne

The cat relieved herself in the driver’s seat of my car before vomiting on the floor and casually wandering off to some neighbourhood party. The mess went undiscovered for three days in temperatures over 35degrees c. When we finally went into the car, the acrid stench of concentrated cat deposits was so instantly overwhelming that tears instantly exploded from our eyes and it took thirty seconds of dry heaving before we could once more breathe in shallow gasps. I can still taste the aroma and are now exploring insurance clauses to see if it’s possible to write the car off rather than once more enter into the wheeled dumpster. Yet the pungent face-slapping ammonia-like gas attack we experienced was still more palatable than the stench of this Atlas (2024) movie. The taste though, the taste still haunts us. Why is that when studios cancel films for tax relief that they often choose the wrong films to write off? This should have been one of them. Terrible filmography, plot, casting, and acting made this even less bearable than a Fox News documentary on cupcake economics. It was a real missed opportunity for Netflix - think of the tax it could have saved if had written this one off. The only redeeming part of it was J-Lo, who was so immersed in the role you really really believed that she believed this could be watchable. Belief is a wonderful thing. Our belief in Netflix is shaken though and I look forward to watching the true crime documentary later this year about the Director who murdered this movie.