'Penguins of Madagascar' Review: The Culture of Cute

Four penguins turned spies are the heroes of 'Penguins of Madagascar,' a frenetic animated feature from DreamWorks. They are also penguins turned stars, having earned their own film on the strength of their cuteness quotient in previous installments of the 'Madagascar' series. These penguins really are cute, the animation is consistently appealing, and the movie is obviously bound for megamoolah at the box office. Yet it's worth noting another distinction, of sorts. The story line, a sequence of very loosely connected events, sustains a state of almost pure brainlessness with its indifference to dramatic development and the dictates of logic, even the fantasy logic of cartoons. It's as if most of the script had been generated by algorithms.

In the opening sequence, which is set in Antarctica, the issue of adorability is addressed, with a tinge of irony, by birds who are flightless but far from speechless. 'We're just penguins, nothing but cute and cuddly. Why do you think there are always documentary crews filming us?' In fact, they're being filmed by a crew whose director sounds like Werner Herzog because he was voiced by Mr. Herzog (who pronounces the 'add' sound of 'waddling' like the 'add' sound of 'adding'). One thing leads quickly, if arbitrarily, to another. Soon we find penguins taking on the task of penetrating Fort Knox-the why of it being less pertinent than the why-not of it-then saving the world from a mad scientist, Dr. Octavius Brine, who is actually an octopus named Dave. (Both incarnations are voiced with sly odiousness by John Malkovich, while Benedict Cumberbatch voices, to lesser effect, an undercover operative named Agent Classified.)

'Penguins of Madagascar' never lacks for visual variety: penguins in Rio and Shanghai; penguins in Venice, chasing along canals; a penguin in panties and bra; penguins in lederhosen; monster penguins with horns and lobster claws. The dialogue is equally varied, though sometimes puzzlingly so. Why does one penguin sound like a cross between Cary Grant and Walter Brennan? Who's the target audience for asides about tax laws in France and NPR fund drives, or for the dropping of names like Parker Posey, Robin Wright (as in 'Robin, write this') or Nicolas Cage (as in 'Nicolas, cage them'). As the movie hurtles this way and that, there's a sense of desperation that was clarified for me when the action paused for a penguin discussion about the proper pronunciation of 'diversion.' In the absence of substance, the whole film is a diversionary tactic.

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Werner Herzog-the real though perennially animated Werner Herzog-in Antarctica for a documentary study of the smart, eccentric, indefatigable, philosophical and idealistic people who study that frozen continent. The film, which features startling footage of underwater life, finds no trace of talking penguins, let alone spy penguins, but there are plenty of flightless birds all the same. Mr. Herzog even asks about gay penguins, and a taciturn expert acknowledges, after several seconds of thoughtful reflection, that he has seen 'triangular relationships.'

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