Pokemon: Detective Pikachu

In Ryme City, Pokémon aren’t anything out of the ordinary. They stand on street corners, work alongside humans, jostle through markets, and are as much a part of the cityscape as cars and neon signs. Pokémon: Detective Pikachu thus makes a smart decision early on: the film doesn’t have to explain why this world is supposed to be fascinating. It simply acts as if it’s always been normal.

For Tim Goodman (Justice Smith), however, this normality is tied to memories he’d rather avoid. When he arrives in Ryme City after his father Harry goes missing, he’s met by Harry’s former Pokémon partner: a Pikachu with a detective’s hat, a surprisingly big mouth, and the voice of Ryan Reynolds. The strange thing isn’t just that Pikachu talks—it’s that Tim is the only human who can understand him.

Pikachu, for his part, is convinced that Harry is still alive. He can’t prove it. Parts of his memory are missing, clues are scattered, and of all people, Tim is the one who’s supposed to help him pick up a trail that quickly leads beyond an ordinary missing-person case. Kathryn Newton joins the cast as rookie reporter Lucy Stevens, accompanied by her Psyduck, which becomes a trial for those around it even under manageable stress.

The detective plot is less sophisticated than the title and trench-coat atmosphere might initially suggest. Detective Pikachu isn’t a complicated crime thriller featuring Pokémon, but rather an adventure that uses the investigation as a way to explore its world. Suspects lead to new locations. Clues bring other Pokémon into play. One question opens the next door. The real attraction usually awaits on the other side. And this attraction works surprisingly well.

In games and animated series, Pokémon have always been highly stylized creatures. Here, they have fur, feathers, scales, weight, and sometimes a slightly unsettling physicality. Pikachu is soft and cute without looking like a stuffed animal. Mr. Mime remains completely absurd even with a realistic appearance. Other creatures suddenly seem larger, heavier, or more alien than their animated counterparts would suggest.

The film doesn’t try to celebrate every Pokémon with a grand entrance. Some simply walk across the screen. It’s precisely these casual encounters that make Ryme City more convincing than any explanation of its rules. A Machamp directs traffic. Ludicolo works behind a bar. Pokémon sit next to their owners or pop up somewhere in the background without the camera pausing every time. Those who know the characters can look for them. Those who don’t know them will still understand that this city operates differently.

That’s perhaps the greatest challenge of such an adaptation. A franchise that has amassed hundreds of creatures, moves, and rules over decades could easily come across as a two-hour compendium of references. Detective Pikachu mostly resists this impulse. Fan knowledge is a bonus, not a ticket to entry.

Ryan Reynolds helps with this because his Pikachu gives the film a voice that shouldn’t fit his appearance at all. The little yellow mascot turns out to be a quick-witted, slightly annoyed private detective who needs coffee, voices suspicions, and considers himself far more competent than the situation suggests. The humor lies in the very contradiction between body and voice. Reynolds doesn’t have to constantly explain it further.

Justice Smith, on the other hand, keeps a lower profile. Tim isn’t an over-the-top Pokémon fan who marvels at every new creature on behalf of the audience. His detachment gives Pikachu’s torrent of words room to breathe and prevents the two characters from competing for the same comedic role. When their partnership works, it’s often because one doesn’t react the way the other expects.

Not every stage of their investigation has the same lightheartedness. As soon as the story has to explain more about what’s behind Harry’s disappearance, the casual discoveries increasingly turn into plot points. Names, connections, and motives have to be sorted out. The film then loses some of that relaxed, matter-of-fact ease with which it could previously just wander through Ryme City.

Detective Pikachu is most fun, anyway, in the moments when no one comments on the uniqueness of this world. A Pokémon shows up, acts in accordance with its nature, and the movie carries on. No explanation. No awestruck glances. No hint that fans are now supposed to recognize the reference.

That may sound like a minor detail, but it’s actually quite crucial for a video game adaptation. Ryme City doesn’t feel like a set built solely to showcase familiar characters. It gives the impression—at least for a while—that it existed even before Tim arrived and will carry on after his visit.

The criminal case provides the reason to traverse this world. Pikachu provides the jokes. But the film’s strongest idea lies in those moments when, in the background, some strange creature goes about its completely ordinary business.