I've failed to enjoy The Walking Dead for so long, I decided to go back and read my previous reviews to determine when exactly the worm turned. I didn't cover Volume 11: Fear the Hunters in January of 2010, probably because I was bogged down with other things, but I described it as "incredible" while I moaned about the plodding, repetitive Volume 12: Life Among Them. It occurs to me that across three years and seven volumes, the cast is still basically in the same exact place, both in location and emotion. There are a few less people still with us (I predicted the wrong dead old timer of 17: Something To Fear, but the event itself played out as expected with a different neck in the noose,) although everyone is a shadow of their former self anyway, so what does that matter? I think 14: No Way Out was where the troubles really began, since it was built up at a time of maximum cross-media Walking Dead hypeage, but ended up circling right back to where it started from. As the band mourned deaths of folks most cared fuck all about in 15: We Find Ourselves, I found myself talking as much or more about the TV series, as it seemed to take two mediums running stories concurrently to give me enough material to write about for one review. The third season of the show managed to outshine the current books, if not the story's source material. It went out with more of a whimper than a bang, but Season 3's heights were high, and the trailer for Season 4 has me hyped for more Tyrese (who I've missed terribly in the comics) being joined by fellow The Wire alumni D'Angelo Barksdale. Now there's a show I need to get back to and finish.
Where was I? Oh yeah-- I thought all those menacing faceless figures on covers to comics collected in the previous volume, Something To Fear, meant that we'd get some cross-pollination; having Merle and Daryl Dixon turn up in a vicious rival group. The tease didn't amount to much-- a new villain named Negan who's kind of like TV Shane taken to the nth degree. Kirkman's also sworn to never use Daryl in the comics, but we'll see how long that oath lasts when the sales dip. This volume dealt with learning the vulnerabilities in Negan's group, and becoming better acquainted with the nutbar himself. This is done through a difficult to swallow contrivance, at a time when more and more ridiculously fantastic Mad Max elements are being introduced. The book has broken away from any semblance of reality, and gotten campy to the point where its increasingly limited appeal is skewing toward schadenfreude. "All Out War" is supposed to be the next big thing, and it had better be damned good, because otherwise it'll be really hard to rationalize continued purchase of a book doing donuts for half a decade.
The Short Version? Superman II Too What Is It? Superhero action Who Is In It? The tall guy from The Tudors, Maximus, Cousin Beth from Buffy, Nelson Van Alden, K.C. Waterworld esq., the hot adulteress from Unfaithful, Morpheus and Det. Elliot Stabler Should I See It? Probably.
Superman comics were among the first I ever read, and seeing the 1979 Christopher Reeve movie was one of my earliest memories of a theatrical experience. I watched reruns of the George Reeves series and have seen my share of the various TV versions since. Basically, like most everyone in the free world, I've had plentiful exposure to the Last Son of Krypton. I also suspect that all of us, no matter how much we may have enjoyed the various attempts to translate the character to live action, have always been at least a little disappointed in how low-key the action has been in those features. A great deal of money was spent on Superman Returns for him to appear far less super than the X-Men in their movies, and fans of Smallville waded through a decade of shoddy cosplay waiting for a payoff that never came. Man of Steel wants to make up for that. It wants to give you every super power and all the vicious alien adversaries and every extraordinary obstacle and all the titanic destruction every previous cinematic Superman was lacking, and it does. No super-hero movie has ever been as visually spectacular. You just have to bring all the baggage from those prior Superman encounters with you, because the movie gives you little else but the boom.
The throughline of Man of Steel comes directly from the two Donner films. On the planet Krypton, Jor-El tangles with the forces of General Zod while attempting unsuccessfully to convince authorities that their world is doomed. Baby Kal-El rockets from his exploding home world to Earth, where he's raised by kindly farmers in Kansas. Clark Kent is eventually told of his heritage, is counseled by his ghostly alien father, and grows to become Superman. Kal-El's presence on Earth attracts Zod and his surviving followers, who wreck havoc on Superman's adoptive world and threaten his reporter girlfriend Lois Lane.
Superman Returns was a surprisingly boring movie as it carried over threads from the Donner films and took them down weird, wrong-headed new roads. Man of Steel is surprisingly not a boring movie despite offering a stylish Cliff's Notes condensation of major story beats from two flicks thirty years ago. Director Zack Snyder is shooting for pure Americana, playing with focus and static shots to create an iconic pictorial with a Superman theme. The thing about icons is that they represent something universal in the simplest, most direct terms. The stick figure on a bathroom stall is immediately recognizable and functional, but they aren't known for their emotional resonance. Man of Steel is designed to remind the viewer of feelings inspired by other works, then deliver on their unfulfilled promises of grand comic book throwdowns. In this way, it shares a lot of functionality with the flood of XXX super-hero parodies, bringing the goods previously denied in an effective manner, but walking back the gains in respectability made by the medium in recent years by pandering to man's most primitive desires.
Similarly, this film is filled with former stars and current high grade character actors who were seemingly cast to compensate for their abysmal treatment on the script page. Henry Cavill is an attractive cypher in the titular role. He has a great body and carries himself well, offering as few lines as possible to maximize the viewer's ability to project whatever they want Superman to be onto his performance. Amy Adams helps to transition away from the annoying shrieking straw feminist Lois Lane of Margot Kidder and sands off the rough edges of Teri Hatcher and Dana Delany to make the dogged journalist to content modern audience while ensuring she still has long plunges to be caught from by strong Kryptonian arms. Jimmy Olsen has had problems making a connection with viewers, so he was recast as a spare damsel in distress, then the change was downplayed with enough ambiguity that her presence didn't register any offense being perpetrated. Laurence Fishburne plays a newspaper editor in a few perfunctory scenes, negating any objection to the colorblind recasting of Perry White by not registering in an appreciable way by the time the credits roll. God help us, Kevin Costner is probably the closest thing we have to Glenn Ford today, and he gets it done. I enjoyed Diane Lane's southern fried matriarch over Costner's po-face, as she rang true and is unique to the super-hero cinematic cannon, even if her primary reference for drawl and spirit was probably Steel Magnolias. The beefiest parts in the thin soup go to Russell Crowe and Michael Shannon, whose pair of Kryptonian leaders are elevated above the material via comparatively extended screen time and gnawing on the scenery itself.
Zack Snyder smartly avoids his more in-your-face gimmicks, and has turned up with some gratifying, appropriate new ones for the ⅔rds of the movie that requires a director. The CGI sections are fatty as a result, and while I dislike a design aesthetic that renders Krypton as steampunk Anne McCaffrey, the visuals are strong. The real problem, and I've been harping on this for ages, is screenwriter David S. Goyer. There was a time when he was one of the only writers who took comic book material seriously, even if his idea of adaptation was to essentially swipe sequences right out of the books and stitch them together with his own sorry authorial abilities. In the late '90s, that was enough, and even later than that his ineptitude was concealed by visionary directors, excellent casts and an all-encompassing creative unit within which he was consistently the weakest link. By virtue of the fantastic nature of Superman, Goyer's paltry contributions cannot distract and derail the way they did on the Dark Knight Trilogy, but I'm fearful that he might have an opportunity to damage less sturdy properties like Wonder Woman and the Justice League based on the good fortune he's found through association. Please remember in the future that Goyer unbuoyed brought us The Crow: City of Angels, Nick Fury: Agent of Shield, Blade: Trinity, and Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance. Marvel Studios may be heavyhanded in its oversight of the creative process on their movies, but consistency enforced from above still allows for varied colors within the margins. Every time the studios run back to safe, stupid Goyer, we get super-heroes processed through one creative sensibility and increasingly insurmountable plot holes.
Gripes aside, Goyer isn't all bad, and it would be difficult not to find value in a film containing this much talent. Krypton is a much more exciting place than it's ever been before, borrowing from the pilot to Superman: The Animated Series and yes, sigh, The Matrix. Clark Kent's course to Superman is altered in a way that facilitates action sequences and keeps things moving at a brisk pace. You can't say the stunt casting was a waste when seasoned presences keep you engaged despite their individual roles proving cynically threadbare. Two exposition heavy scenes are rescued by arresting CGI visuals that make an impression. The portion that liberally remakes Superman II is packed with cool punch-kick-block. Ursa and Non by any other name are very much the same, though Faora-Ul required martial arts and nifty FX where Sarah Douglas was simply scary through performance. Whatever its failings, Man of Steel is entertaining and occasionally even beautiful, at least until the lengthy final act cut scenes, a complete disregard for human life and PTSD disorders in the audience, and the tone deaf coda seeing the audiences out on a sour note. Despite Goyer's red carpet warnings, The Avengers needn't watch their back, since those movies by necessity retain a connecting human element with the need to develop unproven characters, whereas Man of Steel had all the room it needed for tedious, unengaging, full scale disaster porn since the characters came pre-sold. It's not the greatest Superman movie ever made, but it's certainly the best Dragonball Z one, and the sum of its parts are greater than the sloppy wet thud of the third reel.
I was on a lengthy road trip for a couple of weeks, and passed through a comic shop in Pennsylvania called Phantom of the Attic, hoping in vain they'd carry some Dawn of the Dead memorabilia now that Monroeville Zombies has closed down. Instead, I thumbed through their bundles of discount comic book runs, and found this complete three issue mini-series for 99¢. Probably not the best indicator of quality, but I've occasionally found some solid cheap reads in the rough. This was not one of those.
There's a serial killer on the loose who dismembers homeless people and leaves the parts wrapped up in odd ways. He is pursued by two cops who bear a striking resemblance to Todd McFarlane's Sam and Twitch, and this was published a year prior to the debut of Spawn. The killer hangs out in subway tunnels wearing a fedora and trenchcoat, dispatching the derelicts and creeps who cross his patch with superhuman viciousness, while himself seemingly immune from harm.
The cops catch a break when they find the long dead body of a woman in her apartment, with one wall bearing the bloody icon of "spiders from hell," the killer's calling card. Voice mails on her machine point to his identity, although she was only his first victim in the sense that his overbearing, abusive nature drove her to suicide. The killer is a neat freak, which puts him in a compromising position when he first encounters Jethell, the teenage protector of the citizens living underground. It's all very primordial Spawn, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if McFarlane borrowed from the book, consciously or otherwise.
While very amateurish and indebted to the worst impersonations of '80s Moore/Miller on the writing front, the first issue is passable. The art is mostly lousy, but random panels pack in some serious Sam Keith style detailing. Others recall left field influences like Gilbert Shelton, but more are clearly from the Barry Blair school, which makes perfect sense, because it came out of his studio and he holds the copyright. Angel de Mioche assumes all credit for story and art though, inconsistent as it is. "Culpability" might be a better term than "credit" though, because the second issue goes completely off the rails, leaving a mangled wreck of storytelling. A second serial killer is introduced to distract everybody, while the art and script, barely adequate to begin with, turns painful to the eye. Remember how disturbing the Barry Blair cottage industry of adolescent protagonists in squicky sexual situations were? Try seeing them juxtaposed with the worst grade school notebook snuff doodles, stabbing people in the dick. This middle chapter was confusing, not the least for my copy containing an unannounced reprint of #1, like that helps.
By the third issue, the only pleasure I derive from this series is the Aircel/Adventure/Eternity Comics house ads. Glenn Lumsden should have had a way better career than drawing Puppet Master comics, the way he melded Brian Bolland with Paul Gulacy. Was Steven Butler swiping Flint Henry's Grimjack for his Trancers covers, or what? Oh well, enough putting this off. The finale is so atonal and arbitrary, it's hard to believe it was planned in advance. It read more like sales reports on #1 were so bad that everything had to be wrapped up immediately to stop the hemorrhaging of costs. Key characters suffer left field grisly deaths, the art somehow manages to become even more deformed, and a "twist" ending euthanizes the narrative. Not even a guilty pleasure, even at half the price I paid. Oh, what a price I paid...
The Short Version? Lethal Weapon Mark VI What Is It? Super-Hero Flick. Who Is In It? The American Sherlock Holmes, Marty Kaan, Mahatma Gandhi, Peter Weyland and Holly Holliday Should I See It? Maybe
Following up on both the previousinstallments and Marvel's The Avengers, Tony Stark is trying to get on with domestic life alongside Pepper Potts while suffering through panic attacks related to the alien invasion of New York. An international terrorist known only as The Mandarin runs afoul of Iron Man, and then things get a bit twisted up.
Iron Man 3 is clearly the worst film of the series to date. That doesn't make it a bad movie, as evidenced by the near-universally orgasmic reviews I've read. It's just not as good as you've heard, and I think once the afterglow wears off, folks will find that it's quite a bit less than its predecessors in the staying power department.
I've been a fan of Robert Downey Jr. for decades, but there was a ten year span or so there where a season on Ally McBeal would be considered a period highlight. 2005's Kiss Kiss Bang Bang was a career game changer, in which Downey was not only at his best, but co-star Val Kilmer and writer/director Shane Black were right there with them. Downey continued rebuilding, and landing the lead in Iron Man was the result. In the five years since, we've seen a lot of the guy, but his schtick has devolved through public repetition into the sort of self-satisfied lazy smugness that recalls early '90s Eddie Murphy. Seemingly in response to this, Iron Man 3 tries to take Downey back to the scrappy down-on-his-luck hooligan Harry Lockhart with Shane Black in tow. What it does instead is recall a modern masterpiece during more pedestrian fare where the needs of keeping Robert Downey Jr. happy are now paramount, rather than his ability to serve the role of Tony Stark.
Jon Favreau faced an awful lot of undue criticism for his second directorial turn on Iron Man, and when he was denied The Avengers, he quit the franchise to do Cowboys & Aliens. Favreau seems to have been eating his feelings since, with a visible bloat as he offers a guest turn in a series he used to run. He has even less screen time in his ongoing cameos as bodyguard Happy Hogan than before, and despite seeming to be intended to serve as a motivating factor for Tony in the new film, I'd forgotten all about the character until the film's coda. Pepper Potts was similarly sidelined, turning up in a few early scenes and then dropping out for most of the flick until the big resolution. The presence I did miss throughout the film was Jon Favreau as the director, and one of my first complaints about replacement Shane Black was the obligatory early nods then dispatching of the characters Favreau found necessary in his films.
Ben Kingsley is a gas as the Mandarin for his relatively slight screen time, but his development seemed driven more by an avoidance of the complications Fu Manchu with power rings presented than true innovation. Guy Pearce has two notes as Aldrich Killian, but no power chords. I saw potential in Rebecca Hall as Maya Hansen, vaguely recalling Madeleine Stowe in her glory days, but the role deflates rapidly. James Badge Dale and Stephanie Szostak chew some mean scenery, but they're just muscle. When Ty Simpkins as the adorable boy helper outshines William Sadler and Miguel Ferrer, you've wasted their talents on throwaway parts.
Gone is the cock rock of AC/DC and the punk tunes that helped define Tony Stark, replaced by forgettable tracks and score. No ostentatious displays of wealth and power. No shameless flirtation with gorgeous ladies. Forget about convincing technobabble once you apply anime logic to the Iron Man armor or have Tony Stark bypasses Radio Shack for Home Depot while in dire straits for equipment needs. There's now a kid sidekick, and the genius that invented an arc reactor out of scraps in a cave decides to become a hoodie ninja with gadgets Data from Goonies would have smirked at. The lead character offers omniscient narration that's pointless until the stinger. The one established character with a meaningful presence is Colonel James Rhodes, played by Don Cheadle, who replaced Terrence Howard in the role. Rhodey is essential to recreating the black/white buddy cop aesthetic of Lethal Weapon, The Last Boy Scout, and The Long Kiss Goodnight, all written by Shane Black. In fact, the whole movie feels like a greatest hits collection of Black's other movie moments. Of course there's a torture scene. Of course it's set during Christmas. Of course the finale takes place on an abandoned oil platform at night, which is totally different than the abandoned dock yard in Lethal Weapon 2. Again, I'm a fan, but that makes the constant regurgitation that much more tiresome.
Listen, I'm not a pseudonym for Armond White. There's plenty of dumb fun to be had with this roller coaster, and the over-the-top action is very much of the flavor one would hope from a comic book adaptation. The story logic is appalling, but there's kicks to be had with your brain switch in the "off" position. I'd probably be more positive if this was a spin-off War Machine movie, but as the seemingly final installment of an unplanned trilogy? Not so much. It feels set apart from the first two movies, and rushes through massive aspects of closure at the end in a jarring yet perfunctory fashion. For all it gets right, overall the film feels wrong as a sequel to the Favreau efforts. Ultimately, what it serves to prove is that perhaps the franchise not only could survive the departure of the increasingly expensive Robert Downey Jr., but perhaps should at this point, since much of his spirit and that of the enterprise has left the building.
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