Clearly: The movie G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra was written by an actual G.I. Joe doll brought to life by a wizard. All right, then. Who did it? Who was it? Which one of you dark sorcerers brought the action figures to life and told them they could write a movie? Was it you, Morlack? Was it you, Richard Branson?? Don't look over there, look at me in my face, Branson! Don't look at that potted plant like it's your babysitter and it's about to pick you up in its station wagon and drive you away from my face—look at my face, you old towheaded minx! Because whoever's behind this better hold on to their super-waxed villain 'stache, because I am going to thank-you-French the SHIT OUT OF YOU. Because G.I. Joe is the best autobiographical action film written by tiny plastic men and acted by life-size plastic men EVER. (Dennis Quaid: actual mannequin?)
Here is the situation: Channing Tatum is the Best Soldier in the World Ever. He is America made flesh. He is a winner! When a couple of warheads filled with magical, metal-eating "nanomites" (invented by Cobra Commander Joseph Gordon-Levitt) are stolen (also by Cobra Commander Joseph Gordon-Levitt, and don't bother asking why someone would go to the trouble of stealing his own technology from his own self because it DOES NOT MATTER, YOU COMMUNIST), Tatum falls in with a special clan of underground fighty wax figurines called G.I. Joes. Fight! Fight! Fight!
G.I. Joe is a gleefully absurd cotton-candy action bullshit hootenanny. My goodness, it is terrrrrrrrrible! Internal logic? No. Believable human behavior? Never. Every line of dialogue is a cliché of a cliché, every character a potato, the special effects (observe the polar bear!) look like clip art. And unlike that other summer-blockbuster-based-on-a-line-of-plastic-dolls (robots in disguise), G.I. Joe doesn't give a fuck about being good. The movie proceeds as follows: "Once unleashed, the nanomites will not stop. EVER." "Come on! We gotta get in this fight!" "Don't make me shoot a woman." "Oh my god. They're going to use him to weaponize the warheads." "Try this on for size, boys." "Zey're going to detonate one of ze war'eads at ze Eiffel Towerre!" There is a robot fish, a medieval-tymes flashback, 11 seconds of Brendan Fraser, a plane that only speaks Celtic, zero Sgt. Slaughter, a dash of Face/Off, a buttload of Star Wars, aaaaaaaaand we're done. Incredible. My mouth has a date with your mustache, Branson. You can't hide forever.