It's been an epic summer for superhero movies. After almost three years of hype, DC finally released Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice in March, while this past weekend Marvel unleashed Captain America: Civil War. With two tentpole movies released so close together, it's hard not to draw comparisons between the two: both feature iconic superhero characters fighting over an ethical dilemma with a villain pulling the strings. So which was more successful?
Dawn of Justice, despite smashing weekend box office records, was unanimously panned by critics (with a 27% score on review aggregate site Rotten Tomatoes) and received a mixed audience reaction. Civil War, meanwhile, is receiving near universal praise (90% on Rotten Tomatoes). How could two eerily similar films render such different verdicts? Critics of Dawn of Justice have lambasted it with everything from not staying true to its characters to having a muddled and confusing plot to Zack Snyder just not being a good director. There's a lot of hate for this movie . . . like, a LOT.
But why?
I think it's far more than the "flaws" its critics thrust upon it. I think there's something more psychological at play, because I truly loved Batman v. Superman. I genuinely enjoyed all the elements and thought they worked wonderfully in the movie, including many of the parts other people seemed to hate. And while I also equally enjoyed Civil War, I can't see a difference in quality large enough to account for Batman v. Superman's divisive critical reaction.
In fact, I think poor DC has been working under several major handicaps that many critics and members of the moviegoing audience fail to acknowledge, all of which resulted in a perfect storm of criticism against the film. Let's look at this situation a little more mindfully . . .
**Spoilers for both Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice and Captain America: Civil War**
1. The Studio Approach: Auteur vs Formula Filmmaking
First and foremost, both Warner Bros and Marvel Studios are taking different approaches to their separate cinematic universes. Grace Randolph, who runs the excellent YouTube channel Beyond the Trailer, labels the different approaches as Auteur vs Formula filmmaking. Warner Bros prides itself on being considered a "filmmaker's" studio, meaning most of the agency regarding their films are in the hands of the director (or "auteur," in film theory lexicon). While there's a continuity that each individual film in their universe plays into, the film's themselves noticeably carry the stamp of their director.
Marvel, meanwhile, has a very formulaic approach to their cinematic universe. They had wild success with Iron Man in 2008 and their approach hasn't differed much a dozen films later in terms of tone and presentation. While some of their directors like Shane Black (Iron Man 3) and James Gunn (Guardians of the Galaxy) manage to inject a bit of their own personality, each Marvel movie is very distinctly a Marvel film. They have a template and overarching plot which doesn't allow for much creative liberty from their directors.
Each approach has its pros and cons. Auteur filmmaking creates unique pieces of cinema with one creative mind pushing forward, but can also yield a mixed audience response; the more singular the artistic vision, the more divided the audience's reaction will be. Formulaic filmmaking, meanwhile, allows for little deviation from an established template, but the critical and financial response is much more predictable, with films being largely inoffensive while appealing to the broadest possible audience.
If there was a critical flaw with Dawn of Justice, it wasn't with the film itself but rather with Warner Bros' expectations - they assumed they could yield formulaic filmmaking success off an auteur driven spectacle, perhaps because of their prior success with Christopher Nolan's Dark Knight Trilogy. Batman v. Superman was marketed as a movie that everyone could go see when it was very much a film for a specific audience due to its interpretation of the characters, its dark tone, and the storytelling challenge it presents to the audience (more on that later). Warner Bros had inflated expectations for a product that was incapable of meeting them with the approach they chose to take.
2. Brand Allegiance and Entitled Criticism Culture
Like it or not, we humans have a terrible track record of being sympathetic toward other groups of people. We divide ourselves into categories based on our race, religion, country . . . and also among entertainment properties, whether it's betamax vs VHS, Apple vs Microsoft, or DC vs Marvel. Check any webpage comment section involving a debate between two properties and you'll see insults of the harshest variety being slung. Once someone commits to a brand, getting them to acknowledge that anything comparatively exists is like pulling teeth.
It doesn't take much for people to commit to a brand either, and like it or not, Marvel was the first to establish a shared cinematic universe. Their films have been successful both financially and critically, and to many they represent what interconnected comic book movies should be. As a result, there are no doubt a large number of moviegoers predisposed to disliking whatever DC's attempts at a cinematic universe might be for the simple reason that they're committed to the conventions and tone that Marvel established first.
We also live in a culture where - thanks largely to the Internet - everyone has an outlet to voice their opinion. Unfortunately, the go-to that people use to ensure their voice is heard is to make their opinion harsher, louder, and more controversial than the rest. I call this phenomenon "Entitled Criticism Culture" because there are many amateur film critics (not to mention several professional ones) who write harsh reviews with an air of unearned authority as if their opinion is the be-all-end-all. As a rule of thumb, I never take any review seriously that shits on a film with the same vernacular one would use to describe the Holocaust or a natural disaster. There were many reviewers that referred to Dawn of Justice as an "abomination" of filmmaking and an "insult" to DC fans, despite a fair number of fans having received it positively. This is not good, responsible criticism - this is being explicitly cruel for the sake of garnering page views.
All of this to say I feel a large chunk of the criticism levelled at Batman v. Superman had nothing to do with the actual quality of the film and more to do with the selfish and biased nature of people in general. And that's not to say people aren't entitled to dislike the film if it genuinely didn't appeal to them; it's just hard to take an opinion seriously when a review strays from subjective statements like "I didn't enjoy the film" to misguided objective statements like "this film is terrible." A critique is a personal opinion, not an omnipotent declaration - confusing the two only undermines your credibility as a reviewer.
3. Zack Snyder, Film Director
Zack Snyder's early films were great successes, in particular his 2004 remake of Dawn of the Dead and his 2006 adaption of Frank Miller's 300. Afterward he was entrusted with the monumental task of adapting Alan Moore's groundbreaking graphic novel Watchmen for the big screen, which he did a commendable job at (especially since many considered it an impossible task). And yet this was around the time that public perception of him started to turn. He became pegged as a director that valued style over substance, a monicker which reached its full-blown pitch with 2011's Sucker Punch.
The previews for Sucker Punch promised a wildly stylized action film about a group of young women fighting Nazi zombies, dragons, and killer robots. Almost immediately it was criticized and dismissed as pure exploitation, an unfortunate stigma which stuck well after the film's release. Critics assumed only teenage boys would find any value watching young women prance around being impossibly awesome, yet even that specific audience was deterred when presented with the film's real narrative about a group of young girls forced to struggle under the heel of a sexist patriarchal system. Ironically, the film was dismissed as pure objectification when it in fact carried a very feminist message. Zack Snyder's fatal error was requiring effort on the part of the audience to put that message together.
The themes and metaphors for patriarchy and feminist rebellion in Sucker Punch are not readily apparent or particularly obvious without some critical thought, and if one doesn't look for them then the film can easily be dismissed as pure exploitation. It requires active engagement and mindful analysis on the part of the viewer to truly appreciate, and Dawn of Justice is no different. The motivations and intentions of the characters are largely cerebral and there are a host of thematic parallels that aren't obvious at face-value. We are introduced to a very bitter Bruce Wayne/Batman (Ben Affleck) and left subtle hints to infer what pushed him to the point of moral bankruptcy at the film's start. Meanwhile, the villain's motivations aren't fuelled by revenge or a mad lust for power, but by a philosophical mistrust of anything more powerful than him. These concepts are more existential and require mindful attention and engagement on the audience's part and encourage multiple viewings; Snyder does not spoon-feed viewers, instead assuming an inherent degree of intelligence in their ability to thoughtfully analyze the elements he presents. Again, this was a gamble that Warner Bros took that inevitably wouldn't pay off with a large audience.
I feel because of the almost "hidden" intellectual nature of Snyder's films (a phrase I'm sure many would disagree with) and his obvious talent for stylized action, public opinion of him often sways into the "style over substance" category. His attachment to films brings with it unjustified eye-rolling and a taint which clouds viewers' bias, which is exactly what happened with 2013's Man of Steel when it was first announced he would direct a Superman film - public perception of the movie took a turn for the worst before it even came out.
It's kinda like how everyone used to love Nickelback but now everyone hates them, and yet no one can actually pin-point when or why public opinion suddenly turned.
4. The Pop Culture Handicap
There's a final handicap that DC has been operating under that I'm surprised I haven't seen more acknowledgement of. To understand it, let's dip back into human psychology and try to understand how the weight of expectation can cloud perspective.
Imagine you're meeting someone for the first time. You know literally nothing about them, and then someone tells you the person you're about to meet is an asshole. What happens to your expectation of that person, regardless of whether they're actually an asshole or not? That comment suddenly informs everything you know about that person because you have no other reference point. You'll be cautiously looking for signs of asshole-ishness, even if they appear to be the nicest person in the world.
What does this have to do with Batman v. Superman? Although Marvel was the first to start a shared cinematic universe, Warner Bros had been releasing superhero movies for decades beforehand. Batman and Superman are arguably the most famous superheroes in the world; Batman had seven standalone films before Batman v. Superman, while Superman had five before Man of Steel. Whenever Warner Bros creates a new iteration of a character, they have decades of past expectations and history to overcome. Marvel, meanwhile, had a clean slate with almost all of their characters. Audiences knew almost nothing about Iron Man or Thor, which meant they were establishing expectations for the first time with each of their films. There was no previous bar to hit, unlike with DC and Warner Bros. Every film and casting announcement is inevitably compared to what came before (just look at the response Heath Ledger and Ben Affleck received) while no one could have cared that Robert Downey Jr. was cast as Iron Man because they had no reference for that character or the quality of the film they should expect.
Batman and Superman have a rich history in movies, TV, cartoons, comics, and video games, so much so that it's almost impossible for anyone - not just comic book fans - to not have a set definition of the characters before seeing Dawn of Justice, which leads to unfair and divided expectations. It's why some say the "true" Batman is quirky and colourful because the grew up watching Adam West, while others believe the "true" Batman is dark and gothic because of Tim Burton's 1989 film. Superman is no different, with his character having undergone multiple iterations across several mediums over the past century. Everyone has a preconceived notion of what the "best" version of a Batman/Superman movie is, so a film like Dawn of Justice is either going to satisfy those expectations (which you'll love) or challenge them (which you'll hate). It's why Superman can be criticized for being too perfect and unsympathetic in the comics, then lambasted for being too emotional and brooding in Man of Steel; it's why we can say superhero movies should be more serious like Nolan's trilogy, then criticize them for being joyless like Dawn of Justice.
Warner Bros literally had no way to present a version of their characters or create a film that would satisfy everyone's expectations, which is why they now have a film that a lot of people love and a lot more people hate. This is why the character of Wonder Woman (portrayed by Gal Gadot) is praised even by critics who disliked the film because this is most people's first introduction to the character; there is no previous expectation or popular definition for what a "good" portrayal of her should look like.
In Conclusion . . .
For the record, I'm enjoying what Marvel and DC are both doing with their cinematic properties. I like the dependable, lighthearted, and charming tone that Marvel has established and I like the dark, serious, more philosophical tone that DC has struck. I deeply enjoyed both Dawn of Justice and Civil War. Do I think both films are perfect? No, of course not. They each have their respective flaws and outstanding moments, yet I can't decipher why Dawn of Justice has received harsher criticism for similar "flaws" as Civil War.
For example:
Both films feature a villain (Jesse Eisenberg as Lex Luthor and Daniel Brühl as Baron Zemo) who seeks to destroy the good guys (Superman and the Avengers) by turning one superhero (Batman and Iron Man) against another (Superman and Captain America). To accomplish this, they both bomb a political venue to divide public opinion against a superhero (Superman and the Winter Soldier) while using parent(s) as the final emotional trump card to instigate a fight between heroes.
And yet, Jesse Eisenberg's Lex Luthor was heavily criticized for being unclear with his intentions, despite flat-out saying he wants to destroy Superman because he doesn't believe a being with such power is capable of being as righteous as public perception insists. Baron Zemo, meanwhile, has been called one of the better and more sympathetic Marvel villains despite his motivations being nothing more than a simple revenge trope (his family was killed during the events of Avengers: Age of Ultron). Two villains with equally convoluted agendas, and yet one receives harsher criticism than the other.
Both films also feature a major fight between superheroes, and yet the circumstances in Dawn of Justice has been criticized despite requiring just as much suspension of disbelief as Civil War. In Batman v. Superman, Lex Luthor manipulates Bruce Wayne into trying to kill Superman while pushing Superman into the fight by threatening to kill his mother. The fight ends when Superman - broken and beaten - mentions his mother's name, "Martha," which also happens to be Bruce's deceased mother's name. Bruce has a moment of reflection, reliving the trauma of his parent's murder before realizing how close he's come to being the same sort of monster that destroyed his own life.
The film was criticized for the ease with which Batman and Superman begin fighting without Superman trying to reveal Lex's master plot, and the fight's end has been painfully simplified by many who insist Batman only stops because their mothers share the same name, ignoring the reflection Bruce undergoes to the memory of his parents' death.
Civil War, meanwhile, features a spectacular superhero brawl with almost a dozen characters. It is being heralded by critics as one of the most spectacular fight scenes in superhero history (which it rightfully is) and yet there is almost no mention about how equally unbelievable the circumstances are regarding the fight's beginning and end. The characters have all been teammates for several films and have overcome monumental challenges together, and yet they too are willing to fight one another with little provocation. The fight subsequently ends when War Machine (Don Cheadle) is injured . . . with everyone seemingly astonished that beating the shit out of each might lead to one of them getting seriously hurt.
I am by no means trying to criticize Captain America: Civil War in an attempt to elevate Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice. I am simply trying to point out the hypocritical nature by which one film's flaws are highly criticized while another film's similar flaws are praised and/or ignored. Warner Bros had a host of obstacles set before them, and while some of challenges were the result of the filmmaker and the studio, I find it impossible to ignore the unfair and severely harsh criticism it's received as a result. There is too much else at play to dismiss it (as many have) as simply a bad film.
And there are clearly a number of people who love it, like me. In an age when we have so much available to us, I find the rampant degree of entitled criticism disheartening when we should be thankful that we have such a variety of art available about our favourite characters, regardless of whether we personally love the current iteration. But what the fuck, right? It's always been easier for people to criticize than trying to understand the challenges inherent to the creative process.
So suck it, Internet. You can kiss my adorable Dawn of Justice loving ass.
Neill Blomkamp has finally graced us with what will no doubt be coined the third movie in his "Johannesberg Trilogy" in the form of Chappie, and I can already tell there's going to be a shit-storm of opinions over this newest sci-fi offering. Like Blomkamp's other films District 9 and Elysium, Chappie deals with the complexity of the human condition as it pertains to notions of identity, classicism, and racism. While District 9 was received with critical praise and Elysium (while good) didn't quite hit people's high expectations, I have a feeling Chappie will be received worst of all, in part thanks to its ending.
I'm going to explain the plot now in case you haven't seen it, in which case you probably shouldn't be reading this anyway because I'm going to spoil the shit out of its final act.
It's the near future and Johannesberg is having great success with its shiny new robotic police force created by young scientist Deon (Dev Patel) who works for a manufacturing company under Michelle Bradley (Sigourney Weaver). He has to deal with the scrutiny of Vincent (Hugh Jackman), a brawny weapons designer whose hulking combat droid the "Moose" is given less favour than Deon's smaller, cuter kin. Cut to bumbling criminals Ninja and Yolandi (played by South African rap-rave group Die Antwoord playing themselves [?] in a weird bit of meta-casting) and Yankie (Jose Pablo Cantillo) as they are thwarted by the robotic police force and later threatened for a large sum of money by a brute of a criminal whose English is so bad it requires subtitles for the whole film. They decide they need a way to bypass the robot police and kidnap Deon just as he's nearing a breakthrough on sentient A.I. and BAM! Chappie (Shartlo Copley) is born into a wild and crazy new world where he must grow, learn, and think for himself.
The film deals with the typical artificial intelligence questions of what makes us human and how do you quantify a soul, and it succeeds largely on those fronts. But then the ending happens, and that's where I could tell most of the audience started to tilt their head and look at the screen funny. In short, it takes a rather daring and fantastical turn.
Spoiler Warning . . .
Chappie is living on a short time frame; his battery has been fused to his chest cavity meaning it can't be replaced and once it runs out, he dies. Grasping with the concept of imminent death the way most people would, he desperately searches for a way to insert his consciousness into another robotic body. While arguing with Deon at the facility where he was created, Chappie steals the neural helmet used to up-link a human brain to Vincent's skulking war machine, even though Deon insists it's impossible to transfer an actual consciousness. As Deon also says earlier in the film, however, any organism with the mind of a human and the processing power of a computer would be able to learn and think faster than any human could ever dream. A few trips to the Internet later and Chappie finds a way to use the helmet to map his neural consciousness.
Shit inevitably goes down into a climax that involves a massive firefight between Ninja and his gang, the crime lord threatening them, and Vincent's "Moose" robot with poor Deon caught in the middle. Yankie and Yolandi (who has been a surrogate mother to Chappie) are killed, Deon takes a bullet to the gut, and Chappie wrecks the Moose before beating the shit out of Hugh Jackman. In a desperate bid to save Deon's life, Chappie uses his new-found wisdom and neuro-link helmet to transfer Deon's consciousness into the body of a robot, who then quickly transfers Chappie into a newer body. It's also revealed at the end of the film that Chappie had made a backup of Yolandi's consciousness while testing his helmet, and they begin creation of a robot body to "rebirth" her as well.
The issue I imagine most people will have with the ending is that it seems too fantastical and it happens too fast. The whole premise of the film is based around creating a computer program that perfectly mimics the human brain so as to develop its own personality and character. Science fiction has dealt with that idea for decades so it's not a foreign concept (Spike Jonze's Her presented it in a wickedly touching way), but the notion of transferring the human mind into a machine is a little more tricky. It's a difficult concept to grasp - reading and then "copying" the entirety of what makes a person a person and somehow transforming it digitally - and Chappie glosses over the technical difficulties rather quickly (it takes Chappie all of five minutes and a montage to accomplish it). The audience is asked to suspend disbelief to believe this robot has the mind of a person, and then within the last ten minutes of the film asked to suspend disbelief even further to believe a human mind - a very ethereal and intangible thing - can be transferred into the body of a robot.
I think it makes people a little uncomfortable to think of a human mind in the body of something that isn't human - like a perversion of nature, far different from creating a mind from the ground up to exist in a mechanical body. It brings about feelings of claustrophobia and isolation, of being trapped in something foreign. It asks too much of the audience. There have been other movies that have toyed with the idea, but the less fantastical and more rooted the reality of the film's world, the more difficult it is to grasp the prospect (Wally Pfister's Transcendence didn't connect well with audiences, whereas no one blinked at Zola in Captain America: The Winter Soldier because it was based on a comic book). Chappie, like the rest of Blomkamp's films, is heavily rooted in reality, so the leap from grounded to fantastical is rather severe.
But the more I think about it, the more appropriate it seems. I would even go so far as to suggest it might be the only inevitable ending the film could have.
The film begins as the story of how a man created a machine with the mind of a human, and ends with a robot creating a human with the body of a machine (I leave it to you to ponder whether or not they're the same thing). When you think of it in comparable terms, it suddenly doesn't sound as far fetched. The film makes the point (as does every science fiction film involving robots) that artificial intelligence would no doubt develop in leaps and bounds just because of the computing power machines are capable of. Deon even says while describing the program he's developed for artificial intelligence that whatever mind is created as a result will be vastly smarter than any human in history and will be capable of learning and retaining information at an exponential rate. By the simple nature of robotics, it therefore makes sense that although it took mankind an unfathomably long time to evolve to the point of being capable of replicating the mind digitally, it would only take a robotic mind that has access to all the information in the world hours to accomplish the same feat in reverse.
And that is what I believe the true point of the film is. It's not a story about a robot that gains consciousness, but rather the story of the end of humanity. Deon is the result of millions of years of human evolution who creates a robotic human mind thanks to the communal intelligence, research, and innovation of the entire human race and scientific community that came before him (because science doesn't occur in a vacuum, it's built on the foundation of the accomplishments of everyone that existed prior). Chappie, the infinitely intelligent result of this impossible accomplishment, achieves the next "impossible" feat - transferring human consciousness into a robotic body - within a few days of his inception. Chappie then uses his breakthrough to save Deon's life by removing his maker's mortal flesh and replacing it with immortal metal. In essence, Chappie removes the fear of death from Deon by making his human body obsolete, thereby removing part of his humanity; he also goes about using the "backup" of Yolandi's consciousness to effectively raise her from the dead as well. Chappie has ushered in a world where death doesn't exist, and thus has changed the very essence of what it means to be human and the course of human history.
It's a wide open ending, and Blomkamp has said he created the film as a potential first chapter in its own trilogy, so I can only imagine where its sequels might go. While the attempt to create a robot version of Yolandi may seem a tad much, I personally think it's a great addition to the finale on top of Deon's own transformation. Whereas Deon is saved in the nick of time, Yolandi is clearly dead. Her consciousness is merely a "backup" copy. It raises the question of whether the robotic Deon has his literal human mind or whether it's simply a copy as well.
These are questions that don't necessarily have answers, and I believe most people will be taken aback by Chappie's ending because it throws these subconsciously existential questions at the audience in rapid-fire succession right after the climax of the film. I think it's going to end up being one of those endings that most people don't like but can't explain why, because it hits them on an almost primal level, questioning the very nature of identity.
There are plenty of philosophers that have questioned the nature of human existence, pondering what we as a species are truly meant for. Are we a disease that is meant to consume the planet and endlessly destroy itself, or are we simply an organism undergoing an awkward transitional phase before we collectively evolve into another form of being, such as robotic organisms that have shaken off the mortal coil of flesh and bone? Will we ultimately escape death, and if so, what will the cost of that be to our humanity? Is there really such a thing as a "soul" or is it simply a word meant to encapsulate all of the mysteries of the human consciousness that we haven't been able to quantify and solve?
Chappie makes us question all of this, and the fact that I'm still thinking about suggests that I must have really enjoyed it as a film. It's interesting to think that humanity will end not with a nuclear bomb or some horrible disease or terrible world war, but rather with a simple keystroke.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: I fucking love the Rocky series. It's as close to a guilty pleasure franchise as I can get, and it's stood the test of time for a reason. I will be the first to admit that I suck at sports. Well, not necessarily suck . . . I definitely have an athletic build and I love to exercise, and I imagine if I put in the proper time and effort I wouldn't be half bad. No, I really hate the competitive nature of team sports. Maybe it stems from my lack of trust in group projects during high school - being exploited because I was usually the only one who actually cared about making sure things got done - or maybe it has to do with being an introvert, or maybe because I don't like feeling the pressure of anyone's expectations outweighing my own.
I do, however, appreciate sports that serve as competitions between two people, which in most cases translates to two athletes beating the fuck out of each other, like in boxing or martial arts. It's less the actual beating that I appreciate though, and more the personal discipline required to train oneself to being in peak condition, relying on nothing but your own skill and being 100% accountable for your actions. If you slack off during training, you're going to lose. Your success is all about how much you're willing to put in.
And that's what I like most about the Rocky franchise.
It centers around the sport of boxing, but the actual story is about a man trying to be the best version of himself, overcoming odds, facing adversity, and all that other heartwarming stuff. You could switch out the boxing for any other sport and it would still work just fine. And Rocky is also one of the very few franchises where another entry a decade or two later didn't feel unnecessary (Stallone seems to have tapped into some miraculous secret, given that he pulled off the same feat with Rambo). In fact, my first foray into the series was Rocky Balboa, the final installment, and I was so impressed with it that I watched the rest and found merit and charm in each one. The series has been quoted and parodied more than any other over the years, and it has earned its place in pop culture history.
If you'll indulge me, I'd like to get my fan-boy on and jerk off this beloved franchise in chronological order.
Rocky (1976) - Written by Sylvester Stallone and directed by John G. Avildsen, you don't need me to tell you why it's great. The underdog boxer Rocky (Stallone) gets a once-in-a-lifetime chance to fight the heavyweight champion of the world, Apollo Creed (Carl Weathers) under the tutelage of his cranky old coach/manager, Mickey (Burgess Meredith). He ultimately loses the fight, but wins the love of his life, Adrian (Talia Shire), and proves you don't need fame and fortune if you have heart. And who could forget his cranky best friend Paulie (Burt Young), Adrian's brother.
This film is just such a good drama, and it holds up remarkably well today. It's a true love story, and although there are certain parts that would definitely come off a bit rapey today (such as when Rocky is trying to convince Adrian to come up to his apartment) I can't help but get the deep feels at the end when Rocky loses the fight but keeps screaming Adrian's name in the ring, and she finally says "I love you."
Rocky II (1979) - Stallone stepped into the director's chair on this one, and it plays directly off the first, with the opening scene literally being the same final fight from the first film. Rocky has lost, but still becomes an overnight celebrity. He and Adrian are getting married and have a baby on the way, but they soon find that Rocky's qualifications for work don't extend much beyond the sport of boxing. Apollo Creed, meanwhile, is bombarded by accusations that he lost the fight with Rocky to the point that he demands a rematch. Rocky reluctantly accepts, but Adrian doesn't want him to, and the two grow distant. Rocky's training suffers, and all seems lost when Adrian slips into a coma due to complications during childbirth.
But wait! All hope is not lost! Adrian recovers and encourages Rocky to fight. Following a second spectacular training montage, Rocky goes on to narrowly win against Creed! Not only has he achieved his dream of a family, but now he's the heavyweight champion of the world! What could possibly go wrong for Rocky now?
Rocky III (1982) - Quite a lot, it turns out. Whereas Rocky II came off as a direct followup to the first film (you could literally watch them back-to-back as one feature if you felt so inclined) the third installment is more of a character study on how a person re-discovers who they are. Rocky has become complacent with his title as heavyweight champion and ends up losing to a young and brutal upstart, Clubber Lang (Mr. T). Mickey dies of a heart attack, and Rocky is lost until his old rival, Apollo Creed, steps forward to train him. Going back to his roots and with a stern motivational talk from Adrian, Rocky regains his confidence and beats the shit out of Clubber to regain his title.
Stallone returned as both writer and director, and this is when the series started to emerge as pop culture jail bait. There's a lot of absurd stuff that you can't help but love; Mr. T. as the rival, the extremely flamboyant aspects of the training montage, the unapologetic use of Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger," and the final fade away to the painting of Rocky and Apollo having a friendly fight are all the makings of pop culture gold. As a side note, the film's plot syncs up perfectly with Christopher Nolan's The Dark Knight Rises. Some might say that's a knock against Nolan, but I call it unbridled awesome.
Rocky IV (1985) - If the third installment was flirting with the absurd, the fourth was French kissing it with gusto. Much like the third, however, the more it dips into the outrageous, the more memorable it becomes. We're in full on eighties mode here, with all the clothes, music, and political baggage that entails (there's a freakin' robot for Christ's sake). Rocky is the retired champ, content with hanging up his gloves. Apollo Creed, meanwhile, isn't ready to get out of the game just yet. Word reaches him that Russian man-hulk Ivan Drago (Dolph Lundgren) is on his way to America to challenge the reigning champ. Apollo convinces Rocky to let him take on the superhuman Russian instead, and in a tragic turn of events, Apollo is killed in the ring. Against the wishes of his wife and common sense, Rocky travels to Russia with Paulie to avenge his fallen friend. Following what is hands-down THE SINGLE GREATEST TRAINING MONTAGE OF ALL TIME, Adrian finally comes to her husband's side, Rocky wins over the Russian people, beats Drago, and practically ends the Cold War.
This is the first film that definitely had some political messaging behind it (although the third dipped its feet into issues of race). The Cold War era tension seeps out of every inch of the film's reel, with Rocky's training juxtaposed with Drago's; the Russian is trained in a high-tech facility and given steroids, whereas Rocky goes at it all grit and heart, jogging in the frigid snow, chopping wood, and hauling rocks. I'm sure there was someone in the original audience who was shaking their head and thinking "What the fuck happened to the underdog from Philly?" but as most things that came out of the eighties, time and public opinion has been kind to this film in context.
Rocky V (1990) - Original director Avildsen returned for this one (again penned by Stallone) to ground the series back to its roots. The plane of the absurd is slapped by the almighty hand of God and falls into a tailspin in the first few minutes; the beginning is actually rather poignant. Seconds after defeating Drago, Rocky is in his change room, panicking with Adrian after having suffered severe brain damage from all the repeated hits from the super Russian. They return to America only to find that Paulie had unknowingly provided power of attorney to an unscrupulous lawyer, thereby losing all their money. Humbled and defeated, the Balboa clan return to Philadelphia where Rocky takes up training a new upstart, Tommy Gun (Tommy Morrison) while avoiding the taunts of boxing marketer George Duke (Richard Gant) all the while contending with his rebellious son (played by Stallone's real life son, Sage) who doesn't care for the relationship between Rocky and Tommy.
Tommy rises to the top and is co-opted by Duke, however, abandoning Rocky and everything he was taught about fighting with heart. Tired of living in his former mentor's shadow after winning the heavyweight title, Tommy challenges Rocky at Duke's behest, only to be savagely brutalized in an epic street brawl with the aging champ. It was less about following your dreams and more about rolling with the punches life throws at you, but I particularly liked this entry because it really brought Adrian's character full circle. She was timid and fragile at the beginning of the series, but ends up being the foundation of the Balboa family by the end, replacing Mickey as the one encouraging Rocky and telling him his greatest asset has always been his courage and his heart. It's actually quite touching to see her evolution as a character.
Also, the flashbacks of Mickey during the final street fight screaming "Get up, ya son-of-a-bitch! I didn't hear no bell!" are classic.
Rocky Balboa (2006) - The final entry in the series, over a decade after the fifth. This film achieved the impossible by not ruining the franchise in the eyes of the public. It stands on par with the original, in fact, and it helped that Stallone returned as both writer/director along with as much of the old cast/crew as he could find. It worked because the reason for making this final entry syncs up with the theme of all the other films; it's about having heart and doing what you were born to do.
Rocky is feeling the sting of old age. Adrian has passed away and his son (played by Milo Ventimiglia) has grown even more distant. Rocky spends his days recounting old boxing stories for the customers at his restaurant, visiting Adrian's grave, and chatting with an even more bitter Paulie. A computerized match-up between him and current heavyweight champ Mason "The Line" Dixon (played by real life boxer Antonio Tarver) encourages Rocky to get a license to box again, which is immediately followed by an invitation from Dixon's managers to fight the reigning champ himself in a full-blown exhibition match. Another training montage follows, Rocky reunites with his son, and he gives one more good fight before finally hanging up his gloves, content and satisfied.
All of the different elements of this film sync up just right in a very feel-good way. It's all about life changing as time goes on, yet retaining the same heart in spite of that. Early in the film, Rocky is visiting places where he and Adrian spent time together (all locations from the original) and Paulie accuses him of living in the past. Whereas Paulie would rather forget the past (admitting he was never very nice to his sister) Rocky isn't content to just move on. Being old doesn't mean being useless, which is exemplified in a scene where he decides to adopt an elderly dog as opposed to a younger one. He tells the son of Marie (Geraldine Hughes) - whom he met as a child in the first film and still affectionately calls "Little Marie" - that just because something's worn out doesn't mean its time is over yet.
This film is also instantly quotable, with such exemplary lines such as when Rocky tells his son "It ain't about how hard you hit, but about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward" or my personal favorite, when Marie asks Rocky why he's being so nice to her and her son, to which he replies "Why do you have to give something to get something?" It's truly touching, and after having absorbed the rest of the series, it stands as a fitting end to the franchise, perfectly book-ending the tale of one man's life. As Marie tells Rocky before his final fight, "You're going to show them that the last thing to age in this world is the heart."
And that's ultimately what I think I find so appealing about the series as a whole. I don't look at it as six separate films, but as one single story broken into six chapters. Rocky is a character that's curiously like Forrest Gump; he doesn't undergo a very radical transformation over the course of his life, but instead remains stalwart as the world and friends/family change around him. Each film essentially follows the same formula, but there are enough subtle tweaks to make each appealing and different in their own way. Even a character such as Paulie, who remains gruff and bitter until the end, is given enough material over six films that you feel for him and the life he's lived alongside our favorite underdog; he was downright abusive towards his sister in the early films, but by the end you can see what toll his life has taken on him, living alone without accomplishing anything significant on his own and blaming everyone but himself, but you also finally see the love and respect he has for Rocky, his best friend.
The Rocky franchise snuck up on me, with one entry after another fueling my appreciation for the series. Some parts are fun, some downright absurd, but it always remains touching and inspiring - the tale of one man's extraordinary life. I'll admit I probably have a different appreciation for it having watched the final entry first and then playing catch-up over the course of a weekend with the help of a Spike TV marathon (sorta like my relationship with the Harry Potter books, without the Spike TV, obviously) but it holds a special place in my heart, more so than most other franchises. Despite some entries feeling out of place, taken as a whole they all work, flowing seamlessly from one chapter of Rocky's life into the next, from a down-on-his-luck young underdog to a content old man at the end of his rather amazing journey. It's ultimately a story about following your passion and apologizing to no one for it. As Marie tells Rocky when he's questioning whether he should step back into the ring, "Fighters fight."
You gotta do what you love.
Anyone who's had the privilege of hearing me rant about my interests and hobbies for more than five minutes will no doubt know that I'm a pretty big fan of science fiction. But how has the genre most commonly associated with nerds in their parents' basement arguing in chat forums captured my imagination for so many years? I recently watched Christopher Nolan's Interstellar and loved in it ways that are entirely inappropriate between man and film, so I figured now was a good time to reflect on my love for this particular genre.
And just a head's up, there will be spoilers for Interstellar, but I'll try and stick them near the latter part of this article and give you a warning beforehand.
"Science fiction" seems to be a thing that people don't like admitting interest in, probably due to certain negative associates that don't have anything to do with the actual definition itself. It's sorta like how some people don't like saying they're feminists because they think it means something very different than it actually does. When most people hear "science fiction" they think of Star Wars and Star Trek, and while those are certainly famous examples of the genre, not all examples of science fiction are limited to stories of intrepid space adventurers. The actual definition of science fiction - according to the dictionary app on my phone - is "literary fantasy involving the imagined impact of science on society." That's a pretty big goddamn spectrum, and a lot of movies and books which you probably never considered sci-fi certainly fall into that category.
My personal love of science fiction comes from one word in that definition: impact. What I love isn't necessarily the science, but the moral/philosophical/existential implications that come up as a result. I couldn't give a rat's ass about the technical aspects of creating a true artificial intelligence, but you bet your balls I'm interested in thinking about how such an advancement would make us evaluate what it means to be human.
There seems to be a bit of a resurgence in quality science fiction lately, or at least a resurgence of a particularly introspective form of the genre which I refer to as "classic" science fiction because it epitomizes that whole "impact on society" part of the definition I quoted above. Franchises like Star Wars and Aliens may be popular, but they're more of an entertainment spectacle than an introspective journey plunging the depths of the human condition. When I talk about classic science fiction, I'm talking about stories that make you think about yourself as a person and society at large. Such notable recent examples include Alfonso Cuarón's Children of Men, Neill Blomkamp's District 9 and Elysium, Darren Aronofsky's The Fountain, and Ridley Scott's Prometheus (a prequel to the Alien saga which most people seemed to dislike, which I would argue is because it dared to be introspective instead of an action/gore fest). These movies pose the audience with a lot of personal questions that aren't always that comfortable to contemplate, and won't you watch how the fanboys start throwing around the word "plothole" to dismiss such films as garbage instead of meditating on them and maybe admitting that the world extends beyond their fragile little psyches.
While I love those movies with a passion that borders on the erotic, I have a particular soft spot for stories that take their speculations a bit further (as some of the above do). I love stories that flirt with the spiritual and that seek to offer explanations for the origins of life and the universe beyond the typical religious explanation of intelligent design. These types of stories seek to circumvent standard notions of why we are who we are and how life on earth came to be, and trying to comprehend such an overwhelming concept on such a magnificent scale strikes me as the epitome of true science fiction because it challenges all notions of the human condition by speculating on the very nature of existence itself.
My favourite book is Arthur C. Clarke's 2001: A Space Odyssey, which many will no doubt know as the Stanley Kubrick film of the same name. The novel is not some cheap tie-in either; it was written concurrently by Clarke while he simultaneously worked on the film script with Kubrick. I particularly like the book because it provides a narrative perspective that you don't get in the film, although the film is more a visual spectacle than anything else. The book also makes a lot more sense; the film takes the prize for "most confusing movie that can be easily explained with one sentence" award in the annals of film history. In short, a hyper-evolved race of aliens plant black monoliths on Earth and the surrounding solar system to push human development forward (from prehistory to space travel), ultimately ushering in a new stage of human evolution.
The book had three sequels (the first of which was also competently adapted into film and the last of which is soon to get the TV mini-series treatment). The sequels explore the further development of mankind, as well as hint at the intentions of the hyper-advanced race of aliens. What I particularly like about the sequels is that there is never a full degree of disclosure regarding the designs of the aliens and their ultimate agenda with mankind. It leaves a giant question mark revolving around the purpose of human existence, which coincides nicely with a little rant I'm about to take about religion.
The main issue I have with religious institutions is that they presume far too much about the nature of life and the universe. The idea that the will and intentions of a supremely powerful being responsible for the whole of creation can be summed up in a single book is preposterous to me. We barely understand the science of our own world and the infinite depths and complexities it presents us on a daily basis, and yet there are millions of individuals the world over who believe they have a concrete understanding of the origins of life based on excerpts from a book written during a time when wiping your ass with your hand was considered hygienic. Don't get me wrong; most religious texts serve as a great moral compass that get the whole ethics thing (mostly) right, but they should only ever be taken with a grain of salt. I always get stuck in a tight spot when trying to describe my personal affiliation with religion, because I am utterly fascinated with the idea that out in the infinite wonders of a universe that is quite literally beyond our human comprehension there might possibly be a definitive explanation for life and all existence, but I can't bring myself to label such a notion as "intelligent design" in the popular sense of the term.
Instead, I love to speculate. I hold the same opinion regarding ghosts/spirits and all other matters of the supernatural. While I'm not willing to totally dismiss the possibility that some form of existence awaits us once we shake off this mortal coil, I am not willing to believe such a state of being exists in the traditional sense that modern day psychics and shitty horror films would have us believe. There is a simple fact that I constantly feel the need to reiterate during debates on such subject matter: the universe is literally incomprehensible to us. It is beyond our capabilities to fathom the physical scale of our galaxy, let alone the universe at large and the forces that exist beyond. Speculations regarding the existence of dimensions beyond our mental ability to process abound in science, which is why I can't bring myself to accept the simple explanations given by individuals who wouldn't know science if it ran up and bit them on the ass.
Clarke speculates a lot in his novels (especially Childhood's End and the Rendezvous with Rama series) about the origin and purpose of life, but like the best science fiction, it's grounded in concrete notions of science that lend it an air of plausibility instead of putting it in the realm of far flung fantasy. Clarke was too steeped in science to write compelling characters (they are often far too rational and lack emotional depth) but I always find his existential ideas remarkably profound. Like the best science fiction authors and directors, he speculates without offering concrete explanation, leaving it up to the reader/audience to carry the speculation further. I get the sense that modern audiences are uncomfortable being left to contemplate such things for themselves instead of being handed an answer, which is why I hypothesize there was an overall lukewarm reception to Prometheus and the ending to the TV series Lost, both of which left a significant amount of details to the audience's imagination. If anything though, I think that's reflective of how complacent we have become as a species, preferring to have the answers handed to us rather than spend any significant time meditating on such mysteries of life for ourselves (which kinda forms the whole basis of organized religion).
SPOILER ALERT! I'm about to dig into Interstellar and its ending, so avert your eyes if you don't want to know what happens.
Interstellar stars Matthew McConaughey as Cooper, a former engineer and pilot turned farmer on a near-future earth that is ravaged by dust clouds and blight. He is asked to pilot a ship into space through a wormhole near Saturn to investigate potentially habitable worlds in a distant galaxy. In doing so, he is forced to leave his family (in particular, his young daughter) as he faces the wonders of uncharted space. What the film does beautifully is meld the scientific and the emotional, grounding concepts such as relativity so that we as an audience are able to comprehend in a rather overwhelming fashion the absolute awe that exists in celestial phenomena like nothing else in cinema before.
There is a particularly guttural scene in the middle of the film where Cooper and a few scientists take a small shuttle to investigate a potential planet that is orbiting a black hole. It is established that the physical nature of the black hole warps gravity and time the closer they get to the planet, and thus exploring the surface has potential consequences; in a nutshell, time passes more slowly on the planet's surface, so for every minute they explore, several months will pass in real time. Shit goes wrong naturally and their mission is delayed forty minutes on the planet's surface. Upon returning to their main ship, they learn that twenty-three years have passed as a result. An entire film could have been made about the isolation suffered by the single crew member left behind while they were exploring the planet's surface, but the biggest emotional gut punch comes when Cooper rushes to check the messages from Earth that have been piling up over two decades, and essentially witnesses his children age twenty-three years in front of his eyes over the course of a few minutes. McConaughey delivers in this scene, as do Jessica Chastain and Casey Affleck (who play his middle-aged children, respectively). This scene makes you feel the consequences of this force of nature. It's like standing before a hurricane - you can't help but be filled with awe and terror.
Throughout the film, it is hypothesized that the wormhole has been placed near Saturn by a race of fifth-dimensional beings that have mastered manipulation of the previous four dimensions (time being the fourth, for those unfamiliar). At the end of the film, Cooper is thrown into the center of a black hole, which in the realm of real science remains completely unexplored, and thus is where Christopher Nolan takes the greatest liberties with his speculation. In the film, Cooper is stuck in a three dimensional representation of the fourth dimension; he is able to manipulate events through the past and present, and uses this to communicate essential information to his daughter back on Earth that ultimately allows her to save the human race.
While in this strange space between dimensions, Cooper theorizes that these mysterious "fifth-dimensional beings" are actually a hyper-evolved form of humanity that has developed past the point of being able to manipulate space and time, and thus deposited the wormhole in the past so that humanity could survive to thrive into whatever they ultimately become. It's a mind-bending paradox, but what's great about is that - like the best stories of science fiction - it never comes right out and establishes his hypothesis as the concrete state of things. Cooper is only saying what he believes to be true, but the entire film reaffirms that the mysteries of the universe are ultimately beyond human comprehension, so the real answers aren't within humanity's grasp or understanding. These beings could be an evolved form of humanity, or they could be any number of other things so fantastical that they exist beyond the realm of our imagination. Whatever they are, they simply have an investment in humanity's survival.
It is left entirely up to the audience to deliberate and reflect on the nature of such beings as well as their intentions. I particularly enjoyed this because to me it is the closest idea I can come up with when I think about what sort of "intelligent design" or "God" might exist - grounded in science, but utterly incomprehensible to us. Interstellar does what the best science fiction stories do - it proposes without insisting, encouraging introspective meditation while ultimately leaving its audience humbled.
We will never, ever have all the answers, and we should never pretend like we do. The fun is in the speculation, and in considering the scale and unfathomable mysteries and wonders that exist in an overwhelmingly massive universe that we will never fully comprehend.
There are many movies that spur controversy, and some rightfully deserve it, but if you'll allow me, I'd like to have a little fun playing devil's advocate.
Zack Snyder's 2011 film Sucker Punch was easily dismissed as a teenage boy's wet dream of flashy special effects and young girls running around doing impossibly awesome things. The film was not popular with, well . . . anyone (despite a cameo by Jon freakin' Hamm). It was attacked by critics, moviegoers, and feminist circles who didn't take too kindly to it because of said young girls being put on display. It came across as an orgy of everything wrong with pop culture.
While I'm not willing to argue and say such disgust isn't well founded (because it's not my right to tell you what you should and shouldn't be offended by) I've always thought the film was misunderstood. In fact, I would go as far as to say most people who dismissed it as chauvinistic schlock sorta missed the entire point.
I always thought the film could be the subject of a rather interesting essay, and since no one else has really done so, I've decided to take a deeper look at it myself. I don't want to give the impression that I'm staunchly defending it, however, or that I'm directly calling out people who took issue with it. Much like accusations of racism circling white-boy Tarantino's black-slave driven murder fest Django Unchained, I think it's worth discussing, so imagine me sitting humbly in a rocking chair, stroking my chin as you present your viewpoint, and then in a very civil and polite manner saying: "You raise a very interesting argument, but have you considered this . . ."
For those unfamiliar, Sucker Punch follows a young girl, Babydoll (Emily Browning) who is wrongfully sent to a mental institution thanks to her douchebag step-father over an inheritance dispute. While incarcerated, she befriends a number of other patients including Rocket (Jena Malone), Sweet Pea (Abbie Cornish), Amber (Jamie Chung) and Blondie (Vanessa Hudgens). As part of her step-father's dastardly plan, Babydoll is scheduled to be subjected to a visit from the "High Roller" (played by the aforementioned Jon "Massive Cock" Hamm) who will silence her for good. The poor girl plans an escape with her fellow patients under the nose of the equally awful warden, Blue Jones (Oscar Isaac).
The hook of the film is that the majority of the story takes place in Babydoll's imagination, or at least in her re-imagining of reality. It gets a bit Inception-y in it's fantasy-within-a-fantasy setting. It's hinted that the girls in the asylum are bought out by the warden as sex workers for whomever is willing to pay, and in order to make this reality not so horribly fucking bleak, Babydoll imagines everything around her happening in a nostalgic prohibition-era brothel. She imagines her and her fellow patients as dancers (hence their nicknames) who must perform for Blue Jones' clientele. Blue Jones wants them to dance because it is based on their performances that his clients "purchase" the girls, and Babydoll seems to have a natural affinity for it.
Furthermore, when Babydoll actually "dances," she's transported even further away from reality deeper into her imagination. As part of the girls' escape plan, they must collect a series of items such as a map, lighter, and knife, and Babydoll's dancing is used as a distraction to collect these items. When she dances, the viewer is treated to stylized action sequences where the girls fight killer samurai, dragons, Nazi-zombies, and robots.
That's quite a bit of context for the film, but it's important to set up just how inextricably detailed the plot is as it's presented to the viewer, at least for the purpose of this article.
The majority of criticisms hurled against the film are at face-value, claiming it's nothing but glorified violence with scantily-clad female protagonists designed to appeal to misogynistic teenage boys. The teenage boys (or whomever actually liked the film) meanwhile - many of whom have never been in possession of a vagina and thus have no fucking clue what they're talking about - defend it by saying it's "empowering" to women.
I would argue both parties are wrong.
Zack Snyder has said countless times that he doesn't frame any of the girls in a sexual way, and if you watch the film, he actually doesn't. Their outfits while in murder-porn fantasy mode aren't actually very revealing at all (refer to the movie poster for details) and there aren't any camera shots designed to present them as sexualized objects, except while the film is in brothel-mode, but more on that in a minute. Snyder quite cleverly claims that if you're viewing the girls in a sexualized way, you're doing it because that's what you personally - as a sick, sex-driven misogynist - are doing. He just presented you with some attractive girls performing a bunch of kick-ass stunts. If you get a boner because of it, then it's your own damn fault.
The film quite literally claims very early that there is nothing at all sexy about the girls' predicament. As the story transitions from reality to semi-reality (i.e. the brothel) Sweet Pea is on a stage initially partaking in a form of psychological therapy with Dr. Vera Gorski (Carla Gugino) which transitions into the practice of a new dance routine where she pretends to be a helpless mental patient. Halfway through the performance she stands up, practically mortified, and proclaims that there's absolutely nothing sexy about framing a sex show around someone in such a vulnerable position.
It couldn't get more obvious if it came out and slapped you in the face.
This is where the biggest chunk of criticisms against the film can be undermined, because everyone focused on the crazy stylized action-violence portions of the film, but no one seemed to pay attention to the context surrounding those bits. The fanboys who tried to defend it by claiming it was "empowering" also missed the fact that in the reality of Babydoll's world, no matter how much she tries to rebel and fight, she ultimately fails. Of the five girls partaking in the escape plan, only one escapes. Three are killed and our protagonist is left lobotomized. It didn't matter how goddamn hard they all fought, the odds were always stacked against them. They fought for a mile and only gained an inch. The girl's struggle against their male oppressors is actually really fucking bleak and depressing.
It almost reads like a metaphor for rebellion against patriarchy.
Babydoll lives in a man's world, under the constant objectification and abuse of men. Her step-father imprisons her, Blue Jones abuses and tries to sell her, she's constantly ogled and demeaned by the audience and workers at the brothel, and the High Roller - although very regretful in the role he must play - ultimately does the most physical damage to her. Babydoll's only male ally is in the form of the Wise Man (Scott Glenn) who appears in her fighting fantasies and briefly at the end of the film during Sweet Pea's escape, which is arguably still a fantasy in Babydoll's mind, so of all the men in the film the only one who actually helps her is a figment of her imagination. Even Dr. Gorski, who is shown to be a woman of some authority in the hospital, is ultimately powerless to help the girls in their struggle against the oppression of Blue Jones and his entourage.
The big "meta" moment for me came when I was lamenting that we as an audience aren't privileged to watching Babydoll "dance," which is presented as some transcendental experience within the context of the film. Everyone she performs for is left hypnotized, and it is the main tool with which the girls distract their captors to steal the items needed for their escape. And then it hit me, and it was so goddamn obvious that it makes me mad that I didn't realize it when I first watched the film.
We as the audience do get to see her dance, we're just presented with it in a different fashion. We play right into Zack Snyder's hand to prove his point that the only sexualization that happens is that which we imprint ourselves. In the film, Babydoll "dances" for Blue Jones and his clientele on a stage. Then the transition happens to the stylized action sequences, and we as the film audience become the clientele, watching her on the stage of the movie screen. We are hypnotized and distracted from the horrible reality these girls are living in, just as much as the men Babydoll is performing for within the film's plot. Snyder turns the table on us, essentially equating the people in the audience with the horrible people watching the girls in the film's world. The girls don't enjoy dancing/fighting; they're doing it as a means to escape from abuse, but those sequences are exactly what we as an audience are paying to see.
The film may seem like porn to teenage boys who are obsessed with young girls and who overdose regularly on violence and carnage, but it's not condoning that sort of entertainment, it's actively condemning it. Snyder is the real Blue Jones, parading these girls in front of us as an audience and saying, "This is what you sick fucks wanted, right? Well, here you go!" The problem the film faced upon release is that people only saw the first half of that equation and not the second half. They saw the smorgasbord of young women and immediately labelled it as misogynistic without taking into context the rest of the plot or the overall message of the film.
You could easily argue that it was a fault on Snyder's part for not making his point more obvious. After all, it's the responsibility of the filmmaker to make sure whatever message they're trying to convey is communicated properly. And there's so much being said about the nature of reality, fantasy, and escapism in the movie that it can all seem overwhelmingly complicated. As I said before, I'm not necessarily trying to defend the film, but just trying to present all the evidence so that you can make a more informed decision about whether you truly hate it or not.
And that's my two-cents. I thought the film was entertaining enough when I first saw it, but it wasn't until I had a long hard think about it that I started to understand the tapestry Snyder was trying to weave, and which failed to connect with an audience. At this point in cinema history, the film seems to have been dismissed into the abyss, to be forgotten and ignored. I haven't read too many other analysis of it that break it down the way I just tried, but I definitely think it's worth a second viewing if you were quick to label it as shlock on your first go.
But that's just my opinion. I won't stop you if you want to call me something horrible.
The new trailer for X-Men: Days of Future Past dropped yesterday, and once again I have an erection that could hold up a fucking paint can. I wrote an article awhile back after the first trailer launched regarding my worries about an over-saturation of comic book movies, and while I still stand by that claim, I'd like to take a moment and delve into another aspect of it. Namely, why do we love them so much?
I have a particular fondness for superhero films, even though I'm not much of a comic book reader (friends of mine will know the only graphic novels I own are Batman related, because . . . well, it's Batman). I'm also a fitness enthusiast and exercise everyday at home, and I always enjoy putting on a movie to play in the background instead of music, and most of the time it ends up being a superhero movie. Why? Well, I've seen most of them so many times that I don't need to pay attention to know what's going on, and they also seem to sync up nicely with the sort of mind frame I try to maintain while exercising, but more on that in a bit.
Obviously I'm not the only person who enjoys superhero flicks, because there's no way Marvel and DC would be able to set up franchises with such confidence if the general audience was getting sick of them. I'm already excited for the double bill of Captain America 3 and Batman vs Superman, which are supposed to open on the same day.
In 2016.
Granted, the second Captain America hasn't even been released yet, and for all I know, it's shit (not likely though - Chris Evans is a total boss) but their release date is two years from now. Two. Goddamn. Years. I could be married with kids or dead in the cold ground by that time. The industry could collapse. The zombie apocalypse that all the nerds have been praying for might finally come to pass. Never in the history of cinema have studios banked so confidently on a franchise' staying power, but this seems like a gravy train that isn't going to stop anytime soon.
So why are superhero movies so great?
I think on a base level, they manage to meld two important aspects of cinema that never much crossed paths until The Matrix came around - the blending of action and thought provoking subject matter. For The Matrix it was philosophical and existential mindfuckery, for superhero films (the good ones, at least) it's character drama. The first few superhero movies (the original X-Men and Spiderman) displayed this reasonably well, but it wasn't until Batman Begins came around that the formula was perfected. Christopher Nolan's first Batman entry aimed not to just be a mere "superhero" or "comic book" movie, but simply a great film - a character study, really - that just happened to take its source material from comics and superheroes.
The rest, as they say, is history.
Superhero films appeal in a general entertainment sort of way, because they feature attractive people doing fantastical things with lots of explosions and comedy to boot. Their lasting appeal, however, lies in their character portrayals. One of the wonderful things that this surge of superhero films has done is expose comics and graphic novels as being more than literature for obsessive nerds, instead showing that a lot of wonderful storytelling exists in the medium. The majority of superhero films in the last decade (or at least the most popular ones) focus heavily on the character of the hero and their struggles as a human being, which thankfully audiences are able to related to, and the less fantastical the better.
Audiences subconsciously strive to be empathetic to characters in storytelling. If they can relate to a character onscreen, they become more invested. Deep down, everyone likes to believe that they are the hero in the personal story of their life, and superhero films strike a resounding chord with that. There is a catharsis in watching a hero we identify with overcoming their struggles in ways we wish we could overcome our own. It's mythology when you break it down - a hero's journey. We are all our own heroes, and we easily identify with even the most basic plots of similar stories.
To focus on DC for a moment, this is where Christopher Nolan really hit the ball out of the park with his Dark Knight trilogy. He didn't present us the story of Batman; he presented us the story of Bruce Wayne, a man so traumatized by his past that he felt compelled to create a vigilante persona. The biggest struggles he faces in each film - although they may involve sweeping chases, massive explosions, and larger than life villains - are still very personal and internal. In Batman Begins, he learns what it takes to be a hero and to do good. In The Dark Knight, he has to face the darkest depths of the human psyche, navigating the tightrope between good and evil (personified by the portrayal of the Joker and Harvey Dent). In The Dark Knight Rises, he begins aged and worn - cocky from his success years past - and like a good Rocky film, he is beaten and must build himself up again. The most important element in each film is that (although he is an exemplary human being) he still has flaws and struggles with morality the same way we all do.
People need to be able to relate to what they see onscreen, even when it comes to villains. I love the portrayal of Bane in the third film because (as we find out at the end assuming you're paying attention) despite being a brick-shit house who can somehow carry a 200 pound man covered in armor around by the throat with one hand, everything he did to bring the city to its knees was done because he loved someone. While his actions were fantastical, the motivation for them was very grounded. It's easier to remain invested in a world if even the bad guys are understandable instead of dastardly evil just for the hell of it.
Empathy played heavily in the recent Superman reboot, Man of Steel, which ultimately divided audiences. I loved the film for the exact reason fanboys hated it. It was a drastic departure from the comics, which usually present Superman as a boy scout who always makes the right decision and never falters from his moral code. The majority of people I've talked to who disliked the film state this departure from the source material as their main reason for their distaste, but what they forget is that depiction of the character was presented not long ago in Superman Returns, by the same director who I'm now salivating over for his work on the newest X-Men film, and people flat-out hated it. Superman as he is presented in the comics isn't very interesting because he is so perfect. What Man of Steel gambled on (and which I believe ultimately paid off) is that they presented a flawed version of the character that made him extremely empathetic. In this new version he is an outsider struggling to fit in, trying to come to terms with his identity and responsibilities, learning who he is able to trust when it comes to his family, friends, and the place he calls home. That was the real story of Man of Steel - all the explosions and flying around was just butter on the popcorn.
It is this same strategy that is beginning to shine quite heavily in Marvel's onslaught of films. The Iron Man trilogy does an excellent job of presenting a man facing extreme challenges. Charming as Robert Downey Jr. is, the majority of his appeal in the third entry revolves around the anxiety and overwhelming pressure he feels after the events of The Avengers. After him, I have to say the Captain America franchise is my next favorite because Steve Rogers began as a scrawny boy looking to do good in the world before he's finally given the means to do so. Anyone who went through a massive growth spurt during puberty can relate (all of this nicely finds its way into the Spiderman films too). This is also why I find Thor to be the least appealing character in the Marvel lineup, because (like the comic book depiction of Superman) it's hard to identify with a god from another world with unbelievable powers.
X-Men seems to nail all of these empathetic nails on the head too. The entire franchise rests on the thematic core of outsiders trying to fit in and trying to find their place in the world, using the tools and skills they have to survive. People in real life don't need super powers to identify with that. Special credit must be paid to Hugh Jackman and his consistently excellent portrayal throughout each film in the franchise. Despite having appeared as Wolverine multiple times, he's always said he will only agree to reprising the role so long as the character remains interesting. His recent outing in The Wolverine did just that by presenting a character we'd already seen half-a-dozen times at his most vulnerable and most human (and undoubtedly, his most sexy . . . seriously, no man that age has any right to look that good).
And so this brings an end to my rant about superhero films. We love them because we idolize them. They tap into the deepest of our moral desires and present an idealized world where doing good ultimately results in a happy ending, instead of all the bullshit lunacy that happens in real life.
To tie this all back to my personal anecdote, I enjoy watching these sorts of films when I exercise because the process of working out is therapeutic to me - I'd almost equate it with meditation. It allows me to focus and relieve the stress of my life in a way that ultimately makes me feel like I'm bettering myself, and so I immensely enjoy having a movie regarding a hero striving to overcome their own stresses to become better than they initially are playing as background music.
Also, the majority of actors in those films are jacked as shit, which certainly helps keep the motivation up.
