Title: Paddington in Peru

Director: Dougal Wilson

Cast: Ben Whishaw, Hugh Bonneville, Emily Mortimer, Olivia Colman, Antonio Banderas, Samuel Joslin

Where: In theatres near you

Rating: HHH 

Troy Ribeiro

In this film, everyone’s favourite marmalade-loving bear trades the foggy cobblestones of London for the lush wilds of the Amazon—and the result is a charming, if not entirely transcendent, postcard from the jungle. Burdened by the legacy of its beloved predecessor, Paddington 2, this third instalment—directed by Dougal Wilson—delivers a spirited caper that occasionally stumbles over its good intentions.

Wilson, a debutant feature director best known for crafting whimsical Christmas commercials, doesn’t so much reinvent Paddington’s world as tenderly imitate it. The film is visually lavish—sun-drenched peaks, vine-laced temples, and treacherous river rapids abound—but there's a faint whiff of creative tourism. The change of scenery brings novelty, yet also chips away at the cosy absurdism and crisp British wit that made the earlier films such a treat. It’s not so much a misstep as a scenic detour: picturesque, pleasant, and just a little bit padded.

Ben Whishaw, once again voicing the titular bear with all the earnestness of a bedtime story, remains the franchise’s golden thread. His Paddington is still a beacon of accidental wisdom and meticulous politeness, whether navigating a passport photo booth or sinking a boat with apologetic grace. The film wisely leans into this charm, ensuring that, at the very least, the bear remains unbearably lovable.

Emily Mortimer steps in as the new Mrs. Brown with graceful ease, blending seamlessly into the family dynamic without drawing attention to the casting change. Hugh Bonneville’s Mr. Brown is now on a midlife mission to prove he’s not dull, while the kids are inching toward the precipice of adulthood—cue a conveniently timed family bonding expedition across South America. Julie Walters’ ever-formidable Mrs. Bird returns, clutching her handbag and your affections in equal measure.

But it’s Olivia Colman’s Reverend Mother, a guitar-wielding nun with a mischievous glint, who nearly steals the show. While her villainy is telegraphed in skywriting, Colman’s irreverent glee makes every beat land with delightful cheek. Antonio Banderas, meanwhile, plays a riverboat captain prone to chatting with the ghosts of his colonial ancestors—all versions of himself in varying degrees of ham. It’s a concept that sounds more fun than it plays; his performance, while game, struggles to find the fine line between eccentric and endearing.

Plot-wise, the film offers a treasure hunt with Incan riddles, secret passages, and enough narrative contrivances to fill a pith helmet. The adventure is breezy and competently staged, but it lacks the emotional heft and crystalline wit of its predecessor. Themes of family, identity, and longing drift through the story like jungle mist—present but never fully crystallised. Even the film’s moral epigrams, once satisfyingly simple, now sound like they’ve been workshopped by a motivational fridge magnet.

This by most standards is a charming film. It is beautifully made, intermittently funny, and undeniably heartfelt. But it feels like the third marmalade sandwich in a row: still sweet, still familiar, but missing that first-bite magic. Paddington, bless his sticky paws. He deserves better than competent. He deserves extraordinary.