Isle of Dogs (2018)

I have some non-negotiable codified rules in my life. For example, rule 237, If you didn’t like The Grand Budapest Hotel… we can’t be friends. I mean I suppose we could try, but the chances that our relationship is doomed to failure is so astronomically high, it seems pointless to even try. Also, there is something clearly wrong with you…  (like maybe you have a massive tumor pressing against your hypothalamus)


This review is spoiler-less. And Gluten free… but NOT what some might deem, objective, because, by all commonly accepted metrics, I am a gushing and quivering fan boy of Wes Anderson, director of The Grand Budapest Hotel, The Royal Tenenbaums and the stop-motion screen adaptation of my favourite Roald Dahl, Fantastic Mr. Fox. In my eyes Mr. Anderson’s pedigree is beyond reproach. Ha ha. See what I did there.

*Jo takes a moment to congratulate himself of the successful (at least in his mind) use of a pun* (it doesn’t happen that often for him. He is not that punny) Well done Joey, go get a sticker!

Enter Isle of Dogs. Which is so ridiculously awesome I’ve been struggling to make coherent sentences. (which is evidenced by my above average use of the backspace key, now hopefully inscrutable. Its usually pretty bad, but today even three letter words are a struggle).

Maybe I should just let the movie trailer speak for itself. That way I can’t take the shine off this movie through broad, review ineptitude.

Isle of Dogs hits your right in the squishy, warm center mass that is your feelings. Even if that happens to be a ridiculously small target under normal circumstances… because you wear fur and drown Dalmatians. I think I’ve said enough. Watch this movie!

Joey occasionally likes other movies. Sometimes he reviews them here