As a musical, Dexter Fletcher’s film is just fun enough to (mostly) distract us from its superficiality.
Robin Hood’s shameless silliness only takes it so far, as the film is frequently undermined by Otto Bathurst’s wobbly direction.
A parody of a parody, the film is so soulless that it makes its predecessor seem like a classic in retrospect.
In Sing, musical theater is simply an excuse for the filmmakers to deliver an animated version of American Idol.
It’s more committed to printing the uplifting legend of its title character than in actually examining the human beings underneath.
The film’s inferno of horrors are undoubtedly visceral, but psychologically implosive rather than entrails-exploding.
It’s structured in safe terms, plays for very low stakes, and appeals to no one so much as white, male teenagers with chips on their shoulders.