Any revival of a reboot of a spinoff of a sequel, output by the intellectual human-centipede that is the Hollywood recycling machine, can be no more than a polaroid of a xerox of a mimeograph, cannibalizing what might once have been a good idea—when mood rings and pet rocks seemed like a good idea—perfunctorily updated with no more than a veneer of puerile post post-modern woke sensibility, an insult to the older time and older work, but one that creates nothing new, that captures none of the spirit of the age in which it began, yet says nothing meaningful or relevant for the age in which it is produced.
Except this one.