At Least It's Not "X-Men Origins": "The Wolverine"

To say that I was excited about The Wolverine would be a bit of an understatement. Wolverine has been my favorite of the X-Men since I was first introduced to them, and I lovelovelove Hugh Jackman.

So I went into this film intentionally knowing very little about the premise and having high hopes. After all, after the Terrible Horrible No-Good Very Bad X-Men Origins: Wolverine, anything had to be better. And "Wolverine becomes a ninja" seemed like a very fun idea indeed.

The good news: it's way, way better than Origins: Wolverine. The bad news: it could have been way, way better.

Even the epic stench of Wolverine could not entirely obscure the pleasure of watching Hugh Jackman inhabiting that character onscreen, and so it is here. The movie looks great, and Jackman looks great.

Yet this pleasure is not unalloyed. The film's central premise -- mentioned in the trailer, so I'm not spoiling anything -- is to ask what would happen if Logan weren't The Wolverine anymore. What happens if someone who's been essentially a god for decades finally knows what it's like to not heal from a bullet wound? Considering what might happen when a power we have come to take for granted is taken from us is an idea that comes up quite a lot in comic book stories; that may be one of the reasons I find them fascinating. Americans have always had too much of a tendency to consider ourselves invincible.

Unfortunately, there really isn't enough time devoted to exploring the psychological effects of events on Logan's character, which is a shame because Jackman has increasingly convinced me over the years that he's an actor capable of nuance and power (I hate to admit it, because I don't enjoy musicals, but he really was stunning in Les Miserables), and Mangold has produced fine, subtle character scenes before. Two things seem to stand in the way of more character development: the requisite love-interest plotline and the increasingly common overwhelming of audiences with ALL THE PUNCHING.

The love-plot is what irks me most. There are two female main characters here, which is promising for a Comic Book Movie (a genre sorely lacking in strong female leads). One of them, the sword-wielding Yukio, eschews romance in favor of asskicking, which is refreshing, and her camaraderie with Logan is fun to watch. However, the film tries to shoe-horn in a relationship between Logan and Mariko, a corporate tycoon's daughter, with no reason given other than that they went through a traumatic few days together. Now, Jackman is a beautiful man, so I can kinda understand sleeping with him almost immediately...

Because seriously with those abs.

...but in order for a relationship to hold the kind of emotional weight that is asked of it later, there needs to be more than some stress-induced sexual attraction, and there isn't. Mariko is relegated to "damsel in distress" and Logan to "passionate rescuer" almost by rote. If the film had suggested a connection between Logan's torturing guilt over killing Jean Grey and his desperation not to "let" another woman die, I would have been pleased, but it doesn't aim that high. I wish it had.

The film's Japanese setting is another promising aspect that seems sorely underemployed. Logan/Wolverine is about as far from Japanese cultural ideals of politeness, indirectness, and respect as someone can get, and that sharp juxtaposition could have been very interesting. Yet other than a few scenes played for humor -- Logan finds out what the interior of a Japanese "couple's hotel" looks like, Logan is scolded for his ominous use of chopsticks -- the Japanese element of the story seems largely window-dressing rather than integral to the story. This is problematic for many reasons; the use of "other" cultures as exotic flavoring smacks uncomfortably of unthinking Western cultural imperialism. And in sheer story terms, it's an opportunity to explore a complicated and, in many ways to Western minds, peculiar culture that goes too often undeveloped.

The trend in comic book adaptations is to go for gritty, dark, psychologically incisive, and I like that. It's a particularly fitting feel for Wolverine, who has always been a little rough around the edges. Captain America he ain't. 3:10 to Yuma director James Mangold brings dark grittiness to The Wolverine, and initially, the movie feels a lot like a well-directed suspense thriller: someone is trying to kill someone else, and our hero must figure out why while protecting his charge. Information is fed out very slowly here, revealing only a little bit of the story at a time, which put me in mind of the best Batman stories, where he too plays detective. I was engaged with finding out what was happening and who was behind it, and things weren't telegraphed too overtly.The film's denouement, though, descends into the maelstrom of punching that has come to mark CBMs of late (I'm looking at you, Man of Steel), and sort of falls apart. What had been a lack of blatantly telegraphing plot points becomes a lack of coherence. The action still satisfies, and one scene involving a host of ninjas straining to keep Wolverine in check is really beautiful visually, even though it's pretty painful-looking. Yet big reveals are made that don't make a lot of sense (giant adamantium samurai robot?!), motives of fairly significant characters (most importantly, the Viper) remain barely hinted at, and why this really needed to be set in Japan remains a bit of a mystery.

All this isn't to say that it's not enjoyable. If this review seems to focus mostly on missed opportunities, it's because there is a great deal of visible potential here. Some scenes are quite beautiful, and there are some lovely touches of foreshadowing. The pacing often works well, and the action scenes are visceral, swift, and engaging. And I will absolutely pay money to watch Jackman be Wolverine whenever I get the chance. One could do far worse with a comic book movie. It's just that, like a slow-burn TV romance, the build-up here is better than the payoff.

PS - AT ALL COSTS STAY FOR THE POST-CREDITS SCENE.

Of Men and Monsters: "Pacific Rim"

Before we get even the title card, Pacific Rim has given us a languages lesson ("Kaiju"=Japanese for "monster," "Jaeger"=German for "hunter"), a short history of the kaiju invasion and the jaeger (aka "giant f***ing robot") project, and the requisite angsty backstory for its hero. This is accomplished in the first five minutes. Guillermo Del Toro knows what this movie needs to deliver.

What follows is increasingly a rarity: a movie that's over two hours long but doesn't feel like it. Perhaps it is because we are given a nerdy "Kaiju groupie" scientist (alien biologist?) as an audience surrogate, who is fascinated by these creatures and excited to learn more about them even as he is terrified and repelled by them. Perhaps it is because this character's enthusiasm reflects Del Toro's own clear pleasure in playing with these fantastical creatures. Perhaps it is the magnificently handsome Idris Elba. Really, it could be all of those.

It could also be because, although it is after all a movie about giant sea monsters punching giant robots, there is much that is new and even unexpected here, and infused throughout it all is a sense of awe and delight that creature features and action blockbusters in general just don't have that often. Jurassic Park has it, and oddly I was reminded of that film as I was watching this one. I have seen Jurassic Park more times than I can count, and I still enjoy it. The main reason for that, and why I think the first movie is a classic while the other two are not, is that Spielberg does an amazing job there of capturing the awe of what it must be like to see these huge, otherworldly creatures in our world, where they do not belong and yet where they are far more powerful than we are. That film also takes delight in its visuals, which Pacific Rim similarly revels in. Everything in this movie is big, shiny, and beautiful.

Del Toro has always excelled at imagining the fantastic, and this movie is no exception. The monsters are disgusting but oddly beautiful too, phosphorescing lines of electric blue in the darkness. The camera conveys a sense of scale in a way that films like the Transformers series don't: these bastards are huge. And most importantly, when kaiju and jaeger meet, the physics feel right; several times I felt myself flinch when one or the other landed a blow. This is most important in a creature feature/punching picture (if I may coin a useful term): if I can't tell where one fist ends and the other begins, all the punching in the world will leave me unimpressed. That Del Toro has carefully considered the physics of these creatures is even given a winking acknowledgement with a Newton's Cradle sight gag, and really, what more could you want from a movie?

I also very much appreciated the orchestration of the fighting scenes. Each jaeger is operated by a two-person team (or, in one case, a three-person team), and each has a distinct combat style. Even better, the fighting is constantly adapting, right along with the kaiju themselves, so that each engagement offers something new to the viewer, including a few tricks I did not expect. The kaiju are crafty creatures.

Human-wise, there is nothing particularly deep here, although each main character is given enough of a story to give the viewer a sense of their motivations, and that is really all I need from a movie whose primary function is to smash things for my pleasure. The protagonist, Raleigh (whom Sons of Anarchy fans will recognize as being played by Charlie Hunnam), experiences trauma early on, must be brought back to the fold by an older mentor (played with gravitas and sympathy by Elba), is emotional and a bit reckless, yadda yadda yadda -- standard, but functional. His co-pilot, a Japanese woman named Mako, has secrets and emotional recklessness of her own, but also considerable strength. In a strange way, the story's central conceit -- that in order to handle the "neural load" of operating a jaeger, two pilots must undergo a "neural handshake," essentially a mind-meld in which you enter the other's thoughts and memories -- makes the inevitable love-interest element between the two more plausible: how better to fall in love at first sight than to have instant access to the other's thoughts and feelings?

It is also a delight to watch a city other than New York or D.C. be destroyed onscreen. Judging by most action flicks, in which inevitably either the Statue of Liberty or the White House topples and/or explodes, one would think those two were the only cities in the world. By shifting the focus to the Pacific Rim, the crew are also made more multicultural: in addition to the requisite white men, we begin with a Russian team, a team of three Chinese triplets, a Black English commander, and an ambitious and talented Japanese woman. Unfortunately, the cast gets whittled down by the monsters until it is once again mostly white guys, which is disappointing, particularly given the potential of the setting's geopolitics.

The gender politics are also still disappointing in ways: both the scientist and the mathematician, key figures in the plot, are male, as are all but one other of the jaeger pilots. Nevertheless, it was refreshing to see a woman in an action movie be both badass and keep all of her clothes on. Indeed, Del Toro's focus, as Zack Snyder's was with Henry Cavill's body in Man of Steel, is far more on the sexualized body of Charlie Hunnam, who is gratuitously shirtless in more than one scene. Chalk one up for the girls.

Most of all, this movie is fun. It is made by a director who clearly loves movies and has made one that he would wish to see. It is bombastic and extravagant and nerdy and delightful and keenly aware of its goals. It has a sense of childlike wonder in what it shows you: "Isn't this cool?" it asks. And, if you're like me, the answer is definitely yes.

And then it punches that cool thing in the face, and that's fun too.

Much Ado About Nothing

"Timeless" is a word people like to throw around when speaking of Shakespeare. Just today, a preview for Carlo Carlei's absurdly straightforward-looking adaptation of Romeo and Juliet tossed the word to me as I waited for Joss Whedon's Much Ado About Nothing to start. But while teenagers still swoon over the misfortunes of Juliet and her Romeo, who are, like, SOULMATES 4EVAH, I was reminded while watching Whedon's film that maybe not all of Shakespeare's plays age so well.

Case in point: Much Ado About Nothing. I am predisposed to love Whedon's work: I am a cult follower of "Firefly," and while it took me awhile to jump on the Buffy bandwagon (on which I am now firmly lodged), I enjoy a good TNT "Angel" marathon. I've seen The Avengers probably a dozen times since last year. I always cry at a certain point in Serenity. Yet this movie didn't quite work for me, and I think it's really Shakespeare's fault.

Adapting Shakespeare into modern settings isn't something I'm inherently opposed to. Unlike some drama purists, I think that putting Shakespeare into anachronistic settings can actually intelligently comment on or enhance the plays' themes: witness Baz Luhrmann's angsty 90s-grunge Romeo + Juliet, which so perfectly captures the irrationality of teenagers in love, or Richard Loncraine's delicious alternative-1930s-England spin on Richard III. 

The problem with Much Ado About Nothing is this: like many Early Modern plays, the central crisis revolves around a woman's virginity and whether or not it's intact. (The title itself gives this away, though not so much to modern audiences; "nothing" was slang for a woman's naughty bits back in the day.) Say what you will about Claudio perceiving the real crime against him as adultery or betrayal or whatever, his lines at the disastrous wedding make explicitly, painfully clear that it's really Hero's lost "maidhood" he's upset over, as do Hero's repeated cries of "I'm TOTALLY A VIRGIN YOU GUYS WTF!" This emphasis on sex as irrevocably staining just doesn't update well to a modern setting, particularly when Whedon also makes the understandable but rather unusual adaptational choice of showing Benedick and Beatrice as former lovers. I rather wonder if Whedon's adaptation couldn't have gone farther and eliminated or altered the lines regarding all the is-Hero-a-virgin business; thinking you've seen your fiancee getting it on with a random stranger in her room the night before your wedding is upsetting enough on its own without worrying about her "maidhood," no?

The play's emphasis on Hero's virginity, Claudio's indignant (and, let's be honest, flat-out dickish) response to what he thinks he's seen, and the weird and creepy ending in which Leonato essentially tricks Claudio into his own happiness by playing Bride Swap ("Hey, I have this other niece who looks just like Hero, just marry her and we're cool"), have always left me unsettled, but they stood out in starker contrast here than they have in other adaptations I've seen. For example, Kenneth Branagh's adaptation, set vaguely in the 19th century, doesn't jar so much with this emphasis on chastity because a) we all kind of think that those 19th-century people were creeps about sex anyway, and b) Italian sunshine and beautiful blonde people make us happy and indulgent.

The other reason I think the virginity plot works so badly in Whedon's film is that its visual style often reminds me of the romantic comedies of the 1930s and 1940s, especially the ones in which Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy go head-to-head in a battle of wits. The film's black-and-white shots, composition homages to classic directors (there's mirror shots and shadows aplenty), and emphasis on screwball physical comedy all link it strongly to that early romcom tradition, which makes sense: the squabbling-but-totally-in-love Benedick and Beatrice are obvious precursors to the Hepburn/Tracy tradition. But those movies were often well ahead of their times in terms of sexual/gender politics, while the virginity emphasis here makes the whole thing seem weirdly regressive. These people appear to be living in California in 2013 -- Leonato & co. learn that Don John has been recaptured via smartphone -- but their sexual mores, at least regarding poor Hero, could just as easily be 1613, and it's terribly disconcerting.

The film is not without its pleasures, however. A few players are fairly weak (poor Hero!), but most of the cast are competent, and some are excellent. Clark Gregg (Agent Coulson from The Avengers) is funny and a little fumbling as Leonato, and Sean Maher (Firefly!!) is perfect as the sullen and scheming Don John. Nathan Fillion's Dogberry is delightfully played as a comically bumbling CSI-type: his sunglasses go on and off as he makes pronouncements that seem very important to him, even though nobody else can make sense of them.

Okay, this one's pretty clear.

The film rests fairly squarely on its two leads, however, and they don't disappoint. I do wonder if the film was done chronologically, because Amy Acker's Beatrice begins as a little bit forced and stilted, but by twenty minutes or so into the film she's got both the comedy and the pent-up anger of Beatrice down. Alexis Denisof is a solid Benedick, a modern womanizer who nevertheless can't resist the woman he really loves, and both actors have some great physical comedy bits, particularly in the scenes where they overhear others setting them up to believe each other infatuated. The actors have a warm, believable chemistry between them, although I admit I don't think anyone will ever quite match up to the Emma Thompson/Kenneth Branagh powerhouse of the 1993 film.

Overall, Whedon's Much Ado wasn't quite what I had hoped it would be, but I can understand why it couldn't be. Unlike "timeless" themes like Romeo and Juliet's young love or Hamlet's existential angst, an emphasis on a woman's virginity as dealbreaker just doesn't translate well to 21st-century America. Nevertheless, it is refreshing to see a clever, carefully crafted movie in theatres that doesn't involve $400 million dollars' worth of CGI or marquee megastars, and nerds like myself will enjoy the parade of Whedon's perennial stable of actors. If the 1993 Branagh film is a potent glass of sweet Italian wine, Whedon's is a jazzy modern cocktail -- well-made but with an edge of bitter.

And let's not forget to specify, when time and place shall assert, that Dogberry is an ass. It's important to him.