These Are Not the Hammer: THOR 2: THE DARK WORLD

I'll be honest. Way back in 2011, when I heard there was a Thor movie coming out, I didn't expect to like it very much. Thor has always been kind of a dweeb in the (admittedly few) comic books I've read, and how could it possibly be interesting to watch a being who's essentially a thunder god crush some enemies? Wouldn't that be the shortest movie ever? 

After I saw it, I was pleasantly surprised. Granted, part of that was no doubt thanks to director Kenneth Branagh's ability to frame a scene beautifully:

Nice aesthetics, Branagh.

And Chris Hemsworth's surprisingly nuanced performance of what could've been a simple meathead role:

Just look at all that nuance.

And the production design's attention to presenting a world of suitably epic scale:

Really epic, am I right?

Okay, okay, I'm kidding. Um, mostly.

I liked a lot about Thor, much more than I expected to. My only major beef with the film was that they underused Natalie Portman's abilities and her character, Dr. Jane Foster. Fortunately, this time around that issue is addressed!

This was the gif you were looking for, admit it.

My apprehensions about its treatment of female characters aside, I was really excited to see Thor 2 because although Branagh is no longer at the helm, new director Alan Taylor has directed some of my very favorite episodes of Mad Men, including "The Hall of the Mountain King." He has a polished, sharp sense of visual style, and even though Mad Men isn't exactly full of gods throwing hammers (although MOUNTAIN KING, you guys) Taylor has also directed a fair number of excellent Game of Thrones episodes, which are much more in line with the Thor feel.

Taylor doesn't disappoint. The action feels suitably epic and is visually as stunning as in the first film -- perhaps even a little more so. An aerial chase scene through Asgard is particularly beautiful, although as with all things surrounding that realm, it feels a little unreal in the best way possible. The film's climax, which I will not give away here, makes use of the multiple realms of Yggdrasil to provide both disorienting action and a touch of humor. Although it runs a full two hours, the film is well-paced (better so than the first Thor, which did drag in places) and I didn't even check my watch once. Mostly because my watch is actually a cellphone because I kill batteries and I don't check my phone in theatres because that's rude, but just go with it as a metonym for my not being bored, okay?

There's actually a fair bit of humor here, which is appreciated; one of the problems I have with Man of Steel and Nolan's Batman trilogy is their persistently dour take on the world. That wouldn't work in a movie world where Earth is literally part of a big universe-tree helmed by attractive blonde people, and fortunately, the people behind the Thor franchise seem to understand this. The tone that Joss Whedon set in The Avengers continues here, with some very large-scale action and Epic Statements accompanied by slapstick moments and visual laughs. At one point in the film it almost becomes a buddy-cop flick starring Thor and Loki conspiring together, and this is my favorite sequence of the entire movie.

The chemistry between Chris Hemsworth and Tom Hiddleston is actually much more sparkling than that between Hemsworth and Natalie Portman (again, much like the first film). Of the two men, Tom Hiddleston is the superior actor, and his expressions are wonderfully nuanced to convey glee and outrage simultaneously. Watching him is delightful. Hemsworth and Hiddleston play off each other well, though; Thor is the embodiment of blonde earnestness and Loki always, visibly, has 20 schemes going in his head at once. Their scenes together, although not frequent enough for my tastes (like Loki, satisfaction isn't in my nature, I guess), are supremely enjoyable.

Of course, we're supposed to care about the Romance between Thor and Jane because this is a Love Story etc. etc. There are a few cute moments between Thor and Jane, but in general I'm still unconvinced about the two of them together. However, the filmmakers have done a great deal better this time around with Jane Foster's character. In the first film she really didn't do much other than run Thor over a few times and talk romantically over a rooftop fire. She had basically nothing to do with the film's central story or its climax.

I was worried after seeing the trailer that this would be yet another plot where the female character is a maiden-in-distress and serves only to catalyze the hero into action. It is and it isn't. A crucial part of the plot involves Jane in distress. However, Jane is also an important part of the film's save-the-world climax, and as much more than mere inspiration to the hero. Yet she's no superwoman; she needs the help of her friends and colleagues and her space-boyfriend. Too often being a "Strong Woman" in the movies means trusting no one and needing no one; having no empathy and just Punching all the Things. In Thor 2 Jane plays a critical role in saving the world, with the help of Darcy and the (batshit and often-pantsless) Erik Selvig, and her actions are perfectly in line with her character and her skill set as an astrophysicist.

Even Rene Russo's Queen Frigga is given a little badassery. We still don't have a Wonder Woman or a Black Widow movie adaptation yet, and we probably won't for awhile, but this type of flick is visibly getting closer to having fully realized female characters who are smart and capable, as well as occasionally a little in trouble with Epic Evils. Buffy would be proud.

To JURASSIC PARK, on its twentieth anniversary: A Feminist's Love Letter

As someone who talks a lot (I mean really, a lot) about movies in her daily life (I even find ways to teach them in my classes), the subject of "my favorite movie" is one I encounter fairly frequently. However, when I give the answer to that question to someone who hasn't talked to me about it before, their first response is usually surprise, then incredulity. "Really? That? Uh...why?"

You see, I'm going to let you in on a little secret: Jurassic Park is probably my favorite movie of all time. Because I'm earning my PhD in English literature, most people don't expect that; they expect my answer to be something literary, like The English Patient, or at least something classic, like Casablanca or something by Hitchcock. And I love those movies (okay, so not The English Patient), but when it comes to my cinematic equivalent of comfort food, it's Jurassic Park every time.

I usually explain my choice to my questioners by talking about its quality of filmmaking; after all, it and Jaws represent Spielberg doing what he does in top form. The special effects that still look miraculously good twenty years on. The careful visual composition of shots. The suspense. The velociraptors.


But it wasn't until very recently that I thought I'd try and give some more thought to why exactly this movie has such a hold on my imagination. I love a good creature feature, to be sure. In fact, I'll watch bad creature features (SHARKNADO!) just for the fun of watching animals eat people in ludicrous ways. But there's more to my deep and abiding love for Jurassic Park than that, and I think I've figured it out.

You see, Jurassic Park is really an excellent example of feminist filmmaking.

Okay, if you're still reading, let me explain. This is going to be pretty long, so maybe fetch a cup of tea. Or, if you don't feel like reading a multi-thousand-word essay on the feminist virtues of a dinosaur movie, go read something else. It won't hurt my feelings. But I think you should stay.

To begin with: the story itself. Michael Crichton isn't exactly the first name one thinks of when one thinks "feminist storyteller," I know. But the adaptation in Spielberg's film really is, and there's more than one reason for that.

The most obvious is the main theme, if you will, of the plot: arrogance kills. Okay, dinosaurs kill. But arrogance made the dinosaurs. Ian Malcolm explains it thus: "God creates dinosaurs. God destroys dinosaurs. God creates man. Man destroys God. Man creates dinosaurs." Ellie Sattler adds: "Dinosaurs eat man. Woman inherits the earth."

Ian Malcolm, the rockstar-emulating mathematician, explains his objections to the park's project early on, and this is the film's first real foray into feminist thinking. While John Hammond and the "bloodsucking lawyer" Gennaro are giggling over how awesome they are and how much cash they'll rake in, Malcolm is deeply concerned with the authority Hammond and his scientists are attempting to wield over nature. This authority is unconsidered, required "no discipline to attain," and rests on assumptions of human control and superiority that are rightly called out later by Sattler as "illusion." These objections are actually very much in tune with ecofeminist thought, such as that expressed by Val Plumwood in her fantastic essay, "Being Prey," in which she meditates on her narrow escape from a crocodile attack and what the experience taught her about her relationship to the world. If you haven't read it already, go read it now. Go ahead. I'll wait.

Okay, now that you're back (and wasn't that wonderful?), you can probably see what I mean. Plumwood's main point, like many other ecofeminist philosophers, is that the patriarchal systems that separate "man" from the rest of nature are imaginary and harmful, both to us and to the other inhabitants of nature. Plumwood saw her experience as "a humbling and cautionary tale about our relationship with the earth, about the need to acknowledge our own animality and ecological vulnerability." We're animals; we're prey. Crocodiles attack us when we arrogantly venture into their territory, armored only in our own delusions of superiority, and we're the ones to blame for that. It's really the same for T-Rexes.

Malcolm's other point is, perhaps ironically given the amount of money Jurassic Park earned at the box office, that Hammond's use of scientific power is wrong because it's exploitative, based in capitalism rather than the quest for knowledge. Malcolm, Grant, and Sattler are academics, so it's not as though the film is anti-intellectual. Rather, Hammond's greed is the problem. Grant and Sattler are shown awestruck with delight when they first see the living dinosaurs; for them, this is scientific knowledge made manifest, but it's also just really cool. They work with what they do because they love it and want to understand it. Hammond does his work to take a power trip and rake in money. Crucially, he doesn't understand the extent of his own power: Malcolm points out that his scientists didn't even understand what they had really done, they just "patented it, and slapped it on a plastic lunchbox, and now, bam, you want to sell it." Putting profit above people kills, just as many philosophers have said it does; it's just here, it kills you with dinosaurs.

If Jurassic Park had been made in 2013 instead of 1993, the black-leather-wearing, open-shirted Ian Malcolm would probably be the main character, saving everyone while looking hip and macho and cracking wise-ass jokes. But instead, he's very quickly injured, rescued (by Sattler) and holed up for the remainder of the film in a bunker, unable to take direct action. This sidelining of the figure audiences might expect to be the hero of an action-adventure is a fascinating move, because it allows for other characters to take center-stage, none of whom is more interesting to me as a feminist than Ellie Sattler.

A recent essay by Sophia McDougall (which you should also read, but not, like, right now) argues that "Strong Female Character" is often just a label for a female character who's shoddily written and glossed up with some sort of action detail. What I love about Ellie Sattler in this movie is that she's complex; she's not just an "SFC" for show. Sure, she's an action hero, athletic, able to kick some dino butt and get the power back on in the park. But she's introduced to us as an intellectual. The first shot of her we see is her skillfully excavating a dinosaur skeleton, and she's referred to as the "top mind" in her academic field, a status which is proven by her extensive knowledge of botany (demonstrated several times in the film). She's also tenacious, a problem-solver, willing to dig shoulder-deep into a heap of triceratops poop in order to get answers (a feat which leaves both Malcolm and Alan Grant hanging back and making "eww" faces). The film directly addresses her status as female action hero late in the film, when she decides that she needs to take action to get the park's power back on. Hammond hesitantly suggests that "But it really ought to be me going," and when Sattler asks him why, he stammers: "Because I'm a--- and you're a---" In reply, Sattler pulls a face and says, "Look, we can discuss sexism in survival situations when I get back," and then heads out to get the job done (which she does).

For a generic SFC, those would be the defining traits: kick-ass and smart. But this movie gives Sattler more, which is one of the things that helps make this movie the feminist classic I'm arguing it to be. In addition to her physical and mental prowess, Sattler is also emotional. She loves kids and thinks about having one of her own; she forms an emotional connection with Alex and Tim and helps defend them from the dinosaurs. At one point she breaks into tears thinking about Grant and the kids being out alone in the park. And this behavior, rather than being painted as something too unstable and "feminine" for the "real" heroes, is portrayed as essential. It's what's missing in Hammond's calculations, and it's why his park fails. Hammond is shown to manipulate people as well as nature in his attempts to play god; he rushes the park into operation despite knowing that it has safety issues; he underpays his employees in his quest for profit. He believes that he can rebuild Jurassic Park better, stronger, faster; he believes he'll have control again, and "next time, it'll be flawless." Except that perfection of authority isn't true of humans, and Sattler knows that: "You never have control, that's the illusion! I was overwhelmed by the power of this place, but I didn't have enough respect for that power and it's out now." Much like Malcolm, Sattler understands the importance of understanding that humans are only a part of nature, and that our attempts to assert unquestioned dominance over it are doomed to harm and to fail. Yet this understanding doesn't make her cold or distant; she is shown to deeply and emotionally value her relationships with other people.

This emotional comfort forms a major part of the other principal character's story arc: Alan Grant has to learn to be okay with kids, and specifically, the emotional connection they require of him. In a memorable scene early in the film, Grant is shown almost literally eviscerating a child not suitably impressed by a velociraptor skeleton, sarcastically snipping at him with both words and a fossilized raptor claw. He's awkward and distant around pretty much everyone but Sattler, trying to avoid any kind of connection with young Tim, who idolizes him, and preteen Alex, who appears to develop a rapid crush on him. The story forces him to take on the role of a father/protector to these two, but rather than making Grant more stereotypically "masculine" (read: punching everything), this arc requires him to get more in touch with his feelings. In addition to physically protecting them, he serves as emotional comforter to the kids, assuring them he'll watch over them and letting them snuggle against him to sleep. He has to learn to encourage them to keep going. In a subtle touch, he's shown throwing away his fossilized raptor claw as the children lean on him after a close escape; rather than distancing himself from others, he's learning to allow intimacy, and this is proposed in the film as positive growth for his character. Both he and Sattler are allowed a balance between physical action and emotional stability that just isn't present in most characters (of either sex, really) in movies today, and that balance is, I'd argue, very feminist.

Tellingly, characters who fare badly in the movie lack this balance. The slimy lawyer Gennaro chooses to save his own skin rather than staying to help the others and ends up as T-Rex chow. Programmer Dennis Nedry, feeling underappreciated by Hammond's cheapness, attempts to steal the power of the park for himself and fails to adequately respect the wildlife he's confronted with; he ends up as a dilophosaurus's chew-toy. Even Robert Muldoon, probably the film's most literal representation of the Action Hero (those shorts, am I right?), winds up hoist with his own petard when he overestimates his superiority to his prey and is bested and eaten by a group of velociraptors (teamwork for the win!). The only reason Hammond survives is because he has a group of people who take care of him and he appears at the end to have learned his lesson.

"Okay," I hear you saying, "but what about the fact that all the dinosaurs are female? Doesn't that create a psychological fear of the feminine as all-devouring force?" And I answer, of course it does. There's more than one way to read a dino. But even this can also be read as challenging the patriarchy, because it defies human attempts to assert an artificial control over forces that are larger than ourselves, a major concern of ecofeminism. As Malcolm puts it, "Life finds a way." Despite Hammond and Wu's best attempts at playing god, they can't ultimately outsmart or control nature, no matter how much money and power they throw at it. The island's very instability -- dinos swapping sexes, for example -- messes with that comfortable binary dichotomy discussed by Plumwood and others. It also disrupts our notions of sex and gender: if girl dinosaurs can spontaneously become boy dinosaurs, why should gender roles of humans be any more fixed?

Val Plumwood concludes her essay (which, seriously, if you didn't read it, go do that now) by reflecting on the general human unwillingness to recognize our vulnerability: "In my work as a philosopher, I see more and more reason to stress our failure to perceive this vulnerability, to realize how misguided we are to view ourselves as masters of a tamed and malleable nature." Weird though it may sound, Jurassic Park encourages the same sort of reflection, at least for me. Unlike the book, the film doesn't end with the humans reasserting control over the created ecosystem (trust me, there's a lot of nonsense with raptors and weapons), but leaving it to balance itself. The final shot of the film is Grant looking out the window of his helicopter and smiling thoughtfully at a flock of birds moving gracefully over the water, emphasizing not the monstrosity of nature but its beauty and its interconnectedness. After all, as Grant told that scared kid at the beginning, some dinosaurs evolved into birds, "So, you know, try to show a little respect."

Or, perhaps, a lot.

_____________
This post is dedicated to Brandie Ashe, probably the only person in the world who understands the true extent of my affection for this movie. You can check out her work at True Classics.

"Elysium," or, Matt Damon Becomes a Thumb Drive

When I first saw the trailer for Elysium, the new film by Neill Blomkamp, the writer/director of District 9 (a movie I very much enjoyed), I was intrigued. I'll watch pretty much anything with Matt Damon, but this looked particularly promising, a sort of sci-fi take on his Bourne escapades: Matt Damon, Robot-Man, Punches All the Things. What wouldn't be awesome about that?

Spoilers abound after the break...

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.

Of Patience and Plato: Man of Steel

It's been a long time since I sat down and wrote about a movie for myself, rather than for an essay or journal article. It's time. So here's this.
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The thing about adolescence is that it's messy. It's uncomfortable. We do really dumb stuff when we're teenagers, partly because we don't know any better and partly because we're unsure of our place in the world and are willing to try just about anything to figure it out.

That awkward struggle, and its transposition onto the Superman story here, is the most interesting thing about Zack Snyder's Man of Steel. Snyder and his cast, particularly Henry Cavill, do excellent work in the first hour establishing just how hard it is for Clark Kent to find a place where he belongs. And how could he? He's an alien from a destroyed planet who crash-landed in Kansas, which is equally weird in its own Midwestern way. It's hard enough growing up when you don't have X-ray vision. And so soulful-eyed, bearded(!) Clark wanders from place to place, a hard worker, as someone remarks to Lois Lane, but unable to earn respect; he's always going to be the "greenhorn," the newbie who just doesn't quite seem "right." The fact that Clark can also impale a semi onto telephone poles doesn't change the fact that people don't like him, don't trust him, can't understand him. What better metaphor than this for the angst of becoming an adult?

The film's emphasis on patience suggests its interest in the necessary pain of transformation. Jonathan Kent (shockingly well-acted by Kevin Costner) is shown repeatedly cautioning Clark on the necessity of waiting, of learning, of developing. I don't think it's just coincidence that in one childhood flashback a young Clark is shown clutching a copy of Plato's Republic: exactly how does a kid who can lift a schoolbus and crush a steel fencepost become a just man? Does it matter if you're a good person if nobody can see it, or--even worse--everyone thinks you're unjust? And would we really be just to others if we weren't just a bit afraid of them?

The more I think about it, the more I think the film tackles these questions. Not always deftly, but they're there. Plato's answer, and Jonathan Kent's, is that of course justice matters. Hence the necessity of patience. As Jonathan explains at one point, Clark's moral character could very well change the world, for better or for worse. But like the philosopher who climbs out of the cave, he's going to be blind for a little while before he adjusts to the sun. (It's also no coincidence that in the film Superman literally climbs out of a cave into the sun.)

The Republic and this problem of justice also suggest a way to read the wanton destruction of the film's second half. Socrates famously claims in Book 1 of the Republic that a just man would never do harm to another person; this is also a premise on which the Superman mythos has been constructed, and the film's deviation from that in its final showdown between Superman and Zod has outraged many people. But Socrates also goes on to explain that this idea's too simple; justice doesn't work that way in real places. It might not even be possible, not even with a philosopher-king. And if it were, it would mean severe restrictions on life and freedom: limited education, planned breeding, pre-assigned roles in society---the very things that, at least according to Jor-El, harmed and eventually destroyed Krypton.

So, as there is in the Republic, there is in Man of Steel a difficult dilemma: is justice about knowing instinctively what is right for people and imposing that, regardless of consequences? Or is it about allowing the freedom to fail? And how can a philosopher-king rule rightly when he's still blinded by the sun?

Much of the film's destruction is caused by knee-jerk reactions: the US military burns down half of Smallville because they're instinctively reacting to a violent threat with violence. And the threat is in Smallville because Superman saw Zod threaten his mother and, lost in his rage, flies him right downtown. These are hot-headed testosterone-fueled moves, not the patient, cautious, measured action Jonathan Kent tried so hard to encourage in his son. And they have drastic results: I saw people still standing in the IHOP after Superman and Faora fly through, but I'm pretty sure everyone at that Smallville gas station was incinerated. These are not positive consequences, and although the film's focus on action shots often flies right by them, it's hard for me not to see them as the failure -- by the military, by the Kryptonians, by Superman -- of that instantaneous reaction to violence with more violence.

The destruction that isn't the result of knee-jerk violence is still marked by a lack of patience: the reason Zod refuses to share Earth with humans -- other than that Zod is an off-his-rocker asshat -- is because it would take too long for the Kryptonians to adapt to Earth's current atmosphere. And it would hurt. Despite his talk of doing everything for the greater good of his people, Zod is unwilling to sacrifice. Unwilling to be patient.

The problem is that Superman, for a lot of the last half of the movie, is too. The film collapses into a maelstrom of Boys Punching All the Things; no forethought, no caution, just fists. It's upsetting when Superman finally breaks Zod's neck, but it's also kind of his own fault he's in the situation to begin with: if he'd had the patience to think before punching, he might not have dragged Zod into Grand Central Station, full of people -- an action quite similar to his earlier knee-jerk attack leading Zod right into downtown Smallville, which clearly had problematic consequences. Superman will have to think about that action and its ramifications, and if Man of Steel 2 addresses these (as Snyder has hinted in interviews it will), I think it might just work.

And here's where I think the film's initial emphasis on a metaphorical form of adolescence -- of not fitting in, of not knowing what to do, of trying to figure out one's place and role in the world -- and that strange little nod to Plato come in handy in understanding how the film ends up where it does. Growing up is a shitty business. It's hard and messy and feels like it takes forever, and adolescents are notoriously bad at thinking before they act. It's easier to stay in the cave and live with familiar shadows. If you leave the cave, you risk being blinded by the sun, by the force of the new knowledge and power and responsibilities that confront you but you haven't yet assimilated. It takes a long time to attain understanding. And while you're blinded, there's a possibility that even as a good person you will do some really dumb things. Possibly even some really terrible things.

But there is also the possibility that past that there is growth. Plato says that it's the philosopher's burden to re-enter the cave and educate others about his experiences, to encourage the same growth in others that he has fought so hard for himself. To foster the achievement of good, even when it hurts first, even when it takes a long time. To provide hope. And, if you believe Superman, that's what that symbol on his chest represents.

Although it is definitely also an "S."

Whatever, Superman.