TL;DR: Rick Flag Jr. is back, Peacemaker is living his best (but borrowed) life, and we’re all just waiting for the inevitable crash. Best episode of the season so far.

I swear, James Gunn has a sixth sense for knowing exactly when an audience is starting to get comfortable. The man waits for us to exhale, to unclench, to think we’ve got the rhythm of his little symphony of blood, banter, and broken people figured out—and then he shoves Joel Kinnaman’s Rick Flag Jr. back into our faces, smirking, alive, and clumsily crashing into trash cans like a special forces Mr. Bean. This is Gunn at his most devious: dangling the exact fantasy Peacemaker has been chasing since 2021, and the exact nightmare the rest of us have been dreading. Because sure, Chris finally gets the life he’s always wanted. But if you’ve been paying attention, you know this kind of happiness in a Gunn-verse has the lifespan of a mayfly.

So, let’s talk about “Another Rick Up My Sleeve.” Not in the clipped, play-by-play way most reviews will. No—we’re going to dive deep, like John Cena into an unfortunate pile of alternate-universe lies. Because this episode isn’t just a midseason jolt of adrenaline; it’s a mirror being shoved in Chris Smith’s face, and by extension, in ours.

The Resurrection Trick (Or: Why Comics Never Let You Grieve)

When Rick Flag Jr. died in The Suicide Squad, it was brutal. It was personal. It was the kind of death you don’t walk off, even in a franchise that treats mortality like a polite suggestion. Gunn made sure it stuck: Flag’s last words—“Peacemaker… what a joke”—have haunted Chris ever since. That scar is what Season 1 was really about. But now? In classic multiverse logic, Gunn just yanks Rick out of another timeline and plops him into this one, alive, smoldering, and—plot twist—kind of funny.

And honestly, Kinnaman doing slapstick? I didn’t have that on my bingo card. The guy has made a career out of playing the straight-faced soldier, the gruff cop, the man whose jawline could cut diamonds. Watching him bumble through a lunch date like he’s possessed by Rowan Atkinson’s ghost is surreal in the best way. It’s a reminder that alternate universes aren’t just a lazy “get out of death free” card—they’re playgrounds where actors get to flex muscles we didn’t even know they had.

But here’s the rub: every second Kinnaman is onscreen, you feel the tension coil tighter. Because Rick Flag’s return isn’t just fan service. It’s emotional sabotage. Chris killed this man. He’s carrying the guilt of that murder in his bones. And now, in some cosmic joke, the universe has given him a do-over. The cruel kind.

Chris Smith: Winner, Loser, Impostor

Let’s be real: Chris has never actually won before. Not really. Sure, he’s beaten bad guys. He’s survived impossible fights. But every victory has cost him pieces of himself—his friends, his dignity, his already fragile sense of morality. Episode 3 dangles something new: a reality where he gets to be adored. Kids worship him. Cops know his name. He’s got a sweet new toy in the Peace-Cycle, and even Emilia Harcourt (well, alt-Harcourt) is warm to him in ways that our Harcourt never quite allowed herself to be.

The catch? None of it is his. He’s living as Dead-Alt-Chris, which is basically the superhero version of wearing someone else’s skin suit. The longer he plays the part, the deeper the lie gets. Gunn doesn’t need to tell us this ends in fire—we can feel the flames licking the edges already.

Still, I can’t lie: watching Cena mow through the Sons of Liberty was an absolute high point. Gunn frames him like a mash-up of McClane, Wick, and Terminator, but with the same dopey grin that makes Chris Smith simultaneously terrifying and lovable. The axe gag—where the poor bastard keeps moving with half a blade sticking out of his skull—lands as both grotesque and absurd, which is very on-brand for this show.

And the whole time? Chris is stunned. Not that he can kill—he knows he can kill—but that he can save. That he can be seen as a hero without the caveats, without the shame. That fleeting look on Cena’s face when the crowd cheers, when he realizes he’s basking in a kind of adoration he’s never actually had? That’s the kind of moment you know Gunn will rip away from him soon enough.

The Shadow of Rick Sr.

Lest we forget, this whole season is still orbiting around Frank Grillo’s Rick Flag Sr., who has rolled into the narrative like a grizzled ghost of vengeance. Bringing Rick Jr. back now isn’t just fan service—it’s a narrative chess move. Two Flags on the board means Chris is cornered no matter which direction he turns. It’s guilt on one side, revenge on the other, and a slowly unraveling sense of self in the middle. If Season 1 was about Chris confronting his father (the white supremacist nightmare that was Auggie Smith), then Season 2 is about him confronting his fathers—the symbolic, the literal, and the resurrected.

This is why Gunn’s toybox of alternate dimensions actually works where others (cough Marvel cough) often stumble. It’s not about spectacle; it’s about character. Sure, it’s fun to see Michael Rooker pop up as some eagle-hunting psycho named Red St. Wild (because Gunn can’t resist writing for his pals). Sure, it’s fun to watch Vigilante do laundry, or to cringe at the world’s most awkward Peacemaker superfan. But at its core, this story is Chris versus the ghost of the man he killed—and that’s far juicier than just another “hey look, multiverse!” gimmick.

Lies, Love, and the Clock Ticking Down

The best trick this episode pulls is letting us, the audience, know how doomed Chris is even as he revels in his dream life. Adebayo sees it. We see it. Everyone not named Chris Smith sees it. He’s building a castle on quicksand, and the water’s already rising. Watching him with alt-Harcourt is painful precisely because it’s so sweet. For once, she isn’t guarded. For once, she looks at him the way he’s always wanted. And for once, he believes he might deserve it.

But love built on lies? Gunn has never let that survive more than an act break.

The Violence, the Comedy, the Balance

If Episode 2 felt like it was catching its breath, Episode 3 sprints full-tilt into chaos. The fight choreography is tight, bloody, and inventive—just the right mix of bone-crunching and belly-laughing. Every death lands with either a gasp or a giggle, which is the show’s trademark cocktail. And in between the splatters, you get moments of comedy that shouldn’t work but do. Kinnaman pratfalls. Cena doing the John McClane thing. Vigilante with a laundry subplot. Gunn knows the alchemy: let the absurd live right alongside the tragic, and somehow both feel sharper.

Final Thoughts

“Another Rick Up My Sleeve” is the strongest episode of Season 2 so far, not because it’s the loudest or bloodiest, but because it sharpens the knife at Chris Smith’s throat while letting him taste victory for the first time in his life. Joel Kinnaman’s return is both hilarious and devastating, John Cena continues to prove he’s more than a walking punchline in a chrome helmet, and Gunn’s writing is as cruelly compassionate as ever.

Chris has everything he ever wanted. Which means he’s about to lose it all.