Men in Black: International

The suit No Longer Fits

Cinema, at its most potent, captures the anxieties of its era. When Barry Sonnenfeld’s *Men in Black* arrived in 1997, it was a gritty, slime-coated satire of immigration and bureaucracy, grounded in a spectacularly weird New York City. It suggested that the universe was chaotic, indifferent, and managed by post office workers. Two decades later, F. Gary Gray’s *Men in Black: International* attempts to expand this universe, trading the claustrophobic charm of the original for a glossy, globe-trotting adventure. Yet, in polishing the chrome, the franchise has unfortunately scrubbed away its soul.



The film operates less as a narrative and more as a sleek, kinetic simulacrum of a blockbuster. Gray, a director capable of muscular action in films like *The Fate of the Furious*, brings a competent but sterile visual language to the proceedings. The grime of the 90s is replaced by the sheen of high-tech London lobbies and Marrakesh marketplaces that look perilously like luxury travel advertisements. The visual effects are plentiful, rendering aliens with technical perfection, yet they lack the tactile, grotesque creativity of Rick Baker’s practical effects from the earlier films. We are watching a universe that has been sanitized for mass consumption, where the danger feels theoretical and the "scum of the universe" has been gentrified.

The narrative hook relies almost entirely on the residual goodwill of its stars, Chris Hemsworth (Agent H) and Tessa Thompson (Agent M). Their electric rapport in *Thor: Ragnarok* promised a dynamic duo for the ages, but here, that chemistry is suffocated by a script that mistakes quips for character development. Thompson plays Agent M with a compelling mix of competence and wonder—a woman who hacked her way into the secret organization simply because she needed to know the truth. It is a strong foundation that ultimately crumbles as she is paired with Hemsworth’s Agent H, a character written as a reckless superstar but played with a lethargy that suggests the actor is riffing rather than inhabiting a role.



The central conflict—a hunt for a mole within the organization—unfolds with a predictability that borders on indifference. The film hints at deeper themes regarding trust and the corruption of institutions, but these ideas are jettisoned in favor of rapid-fire location changes and laser battles. Even the addition of Pawny, a diminutive alien voiced by Kumail Nanjiani, serves as a microcosm of the film’s issues: the character is genuinely funny, yet his presence feels like a desperate attempt to inject personality into a vacuum. The humor lands occasionally, but it lacks the deadpan, nihilistic wit that defined the interactions between Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones.



Ultimately, *Men in Black: International* is a victim of "design by committee." Reports of production strife and clashing visions between the director and producers are palpable in the final edit; the film feels pulled in two directions, wanting to be both an edgy reboot and a safe, nostalgic ride. It is not an incompetent film, but it is a superfluous one. It reminds us that a black suit and sunglasses are merely a costume; without the underlying attitude, the subversive wit, and the willingness to get a little slimy, it’s just uniform dressing. The universe may still be expanding, but this particular star has sadly burnt out.