Wright is working more or less within his element here  —  stylized violence surrounded by biting satire (a recurring bit featuring a reality series called“The Americanos”  —  a Kardashian stand-in family  —  is particularly ripe)  — and proves a good match for the material, even as King’s plot starts grinding its gears in the third act. 

For this film, a loose adaptation of Thomas Pynchon’s novel Vineland, the shots vary between languid and almost thunderously violent, from the lilting trills in Jonny Greenwood’s soundtrack, to abrasively coarse auditory punch-outs. At times, it’s like the effect of flipping through random channels on your TV, the sudden change of tone and timbre shocking you with their contrast.  

I think there’s ample room for Jerry’s brand of hyperbolic amplitude as an antidote to the usual mindless summer tentpole regurgitations and superhero frolics of the modern era. It’s time to take it back a notch or two, with some added vroom vroom thrown into the mix.

With few exceptions, the previous M:I films, all of which arguably compromise the best and most consistent full-throttle action series in Hollywood history, were such a joy, in part, because of the way they nimbly set up their massive heist set-pieces, upping the stakes with each turn. There are few things more deeply satisfying to watch than a tight, well-executed plan bucking against insurmountable odds, especially when the plan, even if far-fetched, feels reasonably logical. 

The Jungle Book is compelling, exciting and occasionally scary as it reinvents with modern technology and smart casting.