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We may not necessarily get the movies we want, but sometimes we get the movies we deserve. Question is, did we deserve a movie about a Superman with feet of clay? Perhaps that's the central theme of MAN OF STEEL, the reboot directed by Zach Snyder from a screenplay by David S. Goyer, who crafted the story with Christopher Nolan. In the times we live in, do we require a Superman with existential crises? Grounding superheroes psychologically is now de rigeur in almost all comic books since Alan Moore published his magnum opus, Watchmen, which Snyder also brought to the screen. But what about old-fashioned escapist entertainment?
The gold standard for that in the superhero department still remains Richard Donner's 1978 SUPERMAN, which brought the last son of Krypton into modern times after a spell toiling in cartoons and reruns of the program with George Reeves. Christopher Reeve brought an aw-shucks appeal to the Man of Steel, blending both humor--lots of humor--and a certain knowledge of his own absurdity. Not so Henry Cavill in MAN OF STEEL. His Kal-El is serious and tormented, feeling like a complete outcast at times yet compelled to help his adopted planet. Not that humanity appreciates him in these savage, paranoid times, where levity is apparently in short supply.
While he's far from content to run and hide, that's exactly what Superman does at first, once his foster parents (Diane Lane and Kevin Costner) reveal his otherworldly origins to him. But along with his concealment is his overwhelming drive to find his reason for being, an impulse that leads him to the Arctic, where he discovers a buried spacecraft and a holographic spirit guide of his father, Jor-El (Russell Crowe), who mentors him on the importance of being an ideal for the human race to strive for.
But no sooner is Superman invested with purpose than he is outed by a group of rogue Kryptonians, who demand that humanity turn him over to them or face the consequences. The selfless Superman surrenders, only to learn that the Kryptonians' fanatical leader, General Zod (Michael Shannon, way scarier than Terence Stamp), has no intention of sparing mankind. What follows is a relentless punch-out between Superman and Zod's forces, laying waste first to a Kansas town and then Metropolis, while the fate of Earth hangs in the balance. Exacerbating the situation is the U.S. Army, which declares war on the Kryptonians, Superman included.
Up until now, MAN OF STEEL has, despite its over-serious tone, been interesting and even moving. But once the super-brawling begins, Snyder abandons all sense of restraint and lets the special effects department take over. Compare that to Donner's film, where the special effects were not overwhelming and the action was about Superman saving people from harm rather than fighting. MAN OF STEEL takes the opposite approach, to its ultimate detriment.
There is also a shocking amount of collateral damage, at least for a Superman movie. Snyder doesn't show much in the way of the human toll, but it is catastrophic, with Metropolis bearing the brunt of the damage. And by the time the dust settles (SPOILER WARNING! DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER IF YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS), Superman has become morally compromised. That may be the ultimate sin this movie commits.
Like Nolan's Batman trilogy, MAN OF STEEL holds up a mirror to our present era. But it does it without much in the way of hope. So, I ask you: is this the Superman movie we deserve?
Alex Schor
The Psychocinemapath!
Marvel Studios continues its superhero success story with IRON MAN 3, the latest installment of the saga of ol’ Shell-Head, aka Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.). This time the character is in the hands of Shane Black (screenwriter of the original LETHAL WEAPON and Downey’s director in KISS KISS BANG BANG), who brings his established brand of no-holds-barred action and winking humor to the franchise and carves a niche all his own.
And a good thing, too—for while I was entertained by IRON MAN 2, it was not quite as fun a ride as the first film. The villains were a little too over the top, for one thing. Part three features meaner bad guys and more serious issues at stake, with Tony battling both personal demons and a new global threat—the Mandarin (the awesome Ben Kingsley), who comes across as a steroidal Osama bin Laden. Also muscling in on Tony’s turf—especially on his girlfriend, Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow) is slick-haired, slick-talking scientist Aldridge Killian (Guy Pearce).
But these threats are dwarfed by Tony’s own existential crisis, ever since he touched the void—literally—in last summer’s THE AVENGERS. That near-death experience has driven him to focus on his work while avoiding sleep, to the detriment of his friends and his own mission as Iron Man. His armor and devil-may-care attitude have become a gilded cage. And in a reckless moment he throws down the gauntlet to the Mandarin, daring him to bring the pain.
Unfortunately, the Mandarin calls Tony’s bluff, and attacks his Malibu fortress en masse. Tony barely gets out, and ends up in rural Tennessee seeking clues to the Mandarin’s whereabouts and motives, saddled with an inoperative suit of armor. Now he has to rely on his wits to get out of jams, but he finds an ally in a young but by no means naïve boy (Ty Simpkins). Their relationship is the highlight of IRON MAN 3.
Black keeps the action moving along at a brisk clip, and demonstrates an aptitude for orchestrating effects-heavy sequences without letting them dictate the story. There are also some sudden, unexpected twists that don’t come across as directorial manipulation, for a change. Much like Tony’s armor is an extension of his personality, so are the various returning performers comfortable in their characters, keeping them vital without coasting. This reflects in no small measure the quality of the script, in addition to the actors’ skill.
There was a certain static feel to Tony Stark’s character in the second film that is thankfully absent in both THE AVENGERS and this film. He actually undergoes something of a metamorphosis. The film’s conclusion manages to reach a sense of closure as well as leave a lot of things up in the air, and I didn’t stick around to see if there was a post-credits scene dropping hints as to Iron Man’s next adventure, with or without Downey. But the last line uttered in IRON MAN 3 serves to reinforce the fact that Downey has become inexorably linked to ol’ Shell-Head.
It’ll be a hard act to follow.
Alex Schor
The Psychocinempath!
I was going to go into this review with the simple goal of declaring how much I enjoyed STAR TREK: INTO DARKNESS, J.J. Abrams’s follow-up to his 2009 reboot of the iconic television/film franchise, which up to then was showing its age and mustiness. Abrams and his collaborators reinvigorated it and made it energetic, funny, and palatable to modern audiences. STAR TREK: INTO DARKNESS continues this escapist tradition, although it is not as fresh as the 2009 installment. I was going to go on about how awesome Benedict Cumberbatch was as the film’s nemesis, and how Chris Pine, Zachary Quinto, Zoe Saldana, and company have really nailed their characters without coming across as complete parodies…
But I think I should instead focus on the fact that I saw this movie on an ordinary, non-IMAX screen, in two dimensions. Sure, I was in a multiplex that offered the film in three versions—the normal version I saw, as I feel nature intended; in 3D; and in IMAX/3D. I opted for the 2D version more out of a sense of austerity—I did not want to add any more cost to the already usurious ticket—than anything else, but there was also another, more personal undercurrent of dismay and disenchantment with 3D/IMAX behind my choice.
I will not deny that 3D, done right, can enrich a movie, and I have had exactly one such experience in a multiplex—Martin Scorsese’s HUGO. But that, in my estimation, is the exception. As for IMAX, I avoided it because theaters offering IMAX have a tendency to crank up the volume to nerve-shattering levels. And if the film features a lot of handheld shots and rapid-cut editing (and STAR TREK: INTO DARKNESS is guilty of this), nausea and headache can ensue. I would much rather leave the cinema with the same number of hearing cells I went in with—and with my equilibrium intact as well. So on reflection, I think the version I saw is the one that should be seen, at least by those who wish to preserve their sight, hearing, and balance.
What made me change the focus of this essay was not so much a review of the film, but an account of the IMAX/3D experience by one who went through it, Harlan Ellison. To me, Ellison is more than a mere mortal—he is a force of nature. He’s a writer who should be taught in schools, a staunch defender of writing, education, indeed any endeavor that ennobles rather than degrades the human species. He is the winner of more awards for writing than any other living person on the planet, and anyone who has never heard of him, young or old, should make it their business to seek out his work and learn from it.
Ellison has long been associated with the STAR TREK phenomenon, since he wrote an episode of the original series, “The City on the Edge of Forever,” that fans consistently rated as the best episode ever for that incarnation. That is, he wrote the original draft. It was subsequently rewritten—in the sense of being diluted, dumbed down, and mutilated—until it hardly resembled the original script. For that and other indignities, Ellison’s memories of STAR TREK are not as rosy as the mere viewer’s, to put it mildly. He also hasn’t, as far as I know, been that impressed with the TREK phenomenon in general—its influence, its staying power, its revival on television through THE NEXT GENERATION, DEEP SPACE NINE, VOYAGER, and ENTERPRISE. Ditto with the films, at least most of them. By my recollection, there have been a few installments he does like—but overall, TREK is not something he sees as a particularly positive cultural contribution.
But we were talking about IMAX/3D. On the website Really Long Link Ellison describes in excruciating detail the horrors he endured when he went to see STAR TREK: INTO DARKNESS in that format. He equates it to being visually and aurally mugged for two hours, not counting the interminable trailers and commercials before the show. And I think he, like me, is horrified at the prospect that IMAX/3D is becoming a preference for future generations milk-fed on both the latest gadgetry and easy-to-swallow, easy-to-digest, intellectually empty entertainment. Through IMAX/3D and similar gimmicks, studios are no longer selling film as a storytelling medium; they are selling it as pure experience, a feast for—or rather, an assault on—the senses. Story doesn’t matter. Full-blooded characters don’t matter. The modern studio formula is like this: sensual experience = commerce. It’s cynical, it’s cruel, and it’s depressing.
And worst of all, it works. Ellison notes in his essay that he’ll never attend another screening in IMAX/3D again, after his experience with STAR TREK: INTO DARKNESS. As for me, it’s still an enjoyable film.
But I agree with Ellison all the way.
Do you?
Alex Schor
The Psychocinemapath!
In noting Ray Harryhausen’s passing this week at the age of 92, many words to describe him come to mind, which have likely already been used by better people than I in the preceding days. Genius. Artist. American Original. Sculptor. Sorcerer.
He is gone, but he is timeless. He fathered myths. Whether you were introduced to him and his artistry as an escapism-starved kid, an angst-ridden teenager, a middle-aged cineaste, or a grandfather, Harryhausen was an important connection—to the need to sustain a sense of wonder
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When it comes to saving the world from the forces of darkness, you have to think very hard about whether you’d allow David Wong (not his real name) to accept that responsibility. He and his friend, John Cheese, two layabouts from the town of [UNDISCLOSED], are by their own admission the last people we’d want in our corner when a planet-shattering catastrophe is impending. However, they’re thrust into that very situation courtesy of some bad (probably drunken) decisions involving a would-be Rastafarian drug dealer who gives them a dose of a substance that heightens their sensitivity to other dimensions, among other things.
That’s the premise of Wong’s novel John Dies at the End, which I read to prepare for the film version, adapted by Don Coscarelli (PHANTASM, BUBBA HO-TEP). It’s hard to succinctly describe the story: imagine H.P. Lovecraft meets DAZED & CONFUSED. If you can groove to that combo, this movie is for you. It’s almost as bugf#ck as BUBBA HO-TEP, though a little more ambitious and scattershot
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First, an apology to my readers for my prolonged absence. My only excuse is that few, if any, films that opened in the past months looked promising or really motivated me to go see them. Even being an easy sucker for fantasy and science-fiction was not enough to encourage me to see OZ: THE GREAT AND POWERFUL, once the reviews came in. And no force on earth could compel me to see the atrocity that is G.I. JOE: RETALIATION. And PAIN & GAIN? A comedy from Michael Bay about dim-bulb bodybuilders entangled in kidnapping, torture, and murder? It's a Michael Bay film! I am so not there.
So I ultimately chose what appeared to be the lesser of a multitude of evils, and saw OBLIVION. Like I said, I'm a sucker for science-fiction, and it had enough elements to draw me in: a premise with potential, lots of action, cool effects. Morgan Freeman
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Australian director Cate Shortland‘s LORE, based on the story “The Dark Room” by Rachel Seiffert, is quietly powerful and haunting, but it’s also relentlessly grim and depressing. A tale about the death throes of the Third Reich as seen from the German perspective, it presents a coming to terms with the Holocaust and other crimes perpetrated by Hitler, as experienced by one family’s struggle to survive.
Lore, short for Hannalore (Saskia Rosendahl), is the eldest daughter of a well-to-do couple. Her father is an Einsatzcommando while her mother, it is intimated, is complicit with her husband in the Nazi war machine. Lore and her siblings are perfect products of Hitler’s youth indoctrination programs, and they remain convinced, despite the fact that American forces are virtually on their doorstep, that the Nazis are close to a final victory
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Let’s put our cards on the table, shall we? I do not think ZERO DARK THIRTY endorses torture. It simply presents it, without embellishment or moralizing, as a fact of life. It may be reprehensible, an affront to civilized people, but it isn’t a civilized time we live in.
Director Kathryn Bigelow, screenwriter Mark Boal and their collaborators do not have propaganda in mind in presenting this film, a detailed, riveting account of the decade-long search for 9/11 mastermind and butcher Osama bin Laden and the events leading up to his assassination. They present the facts, as we know them, and let the audience make up their minds
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The key to Tom Cruise’s enduring appeal, despite the rumors that surround him like a fog, is his consistency. This has been his primary quality, dating back to the first MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE movie at least. Consistency of charm, his boyish good looks, his toned physique, his can-do, won’t-back-down attitude, his righteous cause. Of course, one movie star’s consistency may be another moviegoer’s rut, which is why I’ve tended to favor Tom in roles that are outside his comfort zone (or rather, outside our comfort zone). A recent example is the sleazy, psychotic film mogul in TROPIC THUNDER. More of that please, Tom! I say.
I did not enter JACK REACHER with any expectations to lower. I suspected going in that it would to be a typical affair set on Cruise Control, even with the participation of Christopher McQuarrie, screenwriter of THE USUAL SUSPECTS, as both scripter and director. I was also not shackled to any preconceived notions of the kind of film JACK REACHER should be, having not read any of the Lee Child books featuring the titular protagonist
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I confess upfront, I am not a strong aficionado of the Western genre. I’ve seen a fair number of Eastwoods, such as THE MAN WITH NO NAME trilogy as well as UNFORGIVEN and PALE RIDER; a few more classic spaghettis like ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST and DUCK, YOU SUCKER; both versions of TRUE GRIT; SHANE; HOW THE WEST WAS WON; and sundry spoofs like BLAZING SADDLES, THE QUICK AND THE DEAD (trust me, it’s a spoof), RANGO, and the execrable JONAH HEX. Thereabouts I hit the wall in terms of my Western filmography.
Quentin Tarantino, on the other hand, has seen infinitely more movies, and infinitely more Westerns, than I. And he has a knack for stirring other genres into his pot so that he creates a new genre unto himself. His latest film, DJANGO UNCHAINED, mashes up the Western Revenge Drama and Blacksploitation, spiced with his trademark grindhouse sensibilities. The resulting stew I call Westploitation, for lack of a better word. You’ll either savor this meal, as I did, or you’ll get indigestion if you’re of the more squeamish or politically correct variety. Either way, though, it’ll burn your tongue
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psychocinemapath