The Act Of Killing

The Act Of Killing (2013) by Joshua Oppenheimer

The night my grandfather died, I spent the evening alone watching Akira Kurosawa's Ikiru. A week later, when my dog of 13 years died, I watched Vittorio deSica's Umberto D. While I had seen both films dozens of times before, it was these viewings that had produced the most profound reaction in me: I wept.Having experienced what the characters in these films had experienced, and felt a semblance of what they felt, I was able to really express myself and let out what I had kept inside. And that is one of the fundamental powers of film.

I do not usually watch documentaries, unless the subject matter really speaks to me, and that is my own mistake (especially having worked for 2 years in the news field). I first heard of Joshua Oppenheimer's feature début over at Badassdigest.com, and was absolutely riveted by the subject.

In the late 1960's, Indonesia had experienced a political upheaval, with its government replaced by its military and a dictatorship eventually being established. President Haji Suharto, having taken control of Indonesia, had recruited several low-level gangsters into running death squads, among them Anwar Congo and Adi Zulkadry. It is these two gangsters who are the focus of the film.

Unlike the "talking heads" style of documentary, Mr. Oppenheimer (after initially interviewing surviving, and relatives of, victims of the political purges) allows unusual method of having Anwar and Adi devise and direct their own interpretations of the killings. Using any method they wish, Mr. Oppenheimer had them recreate their atrocities. This unique method does something that so few documentaries of this sort accurately do: truly get into the mind of perpetrators of crimes against humanity, at once humanizing and dehumanizing them; not for empathy or sympathy, but to understand how it is that these people can not only get away with they did, but sleep at night.

The film crosses many surreal thresholds, opening on a dreamlike image of dancers emerging from a lakeside building shaped like a giant fish, all the while we hear the directions of Congo Anwar over a megaphone. From this, we are introduced to Anwar properly, as he recalls---with a hint of pride---his time spent in the Pemuda Pancasila, the formal name of the death squads that continue to run and attract the youths of Indonesia today. These are the "good old days", with Anwar and his compatriots excitedly recalling and recreating the various methods of murder. "I would never wear white pants," Anwar says at one point, pointing to a picture of himself. The reason, he reveals, is that they stain too easily from the blood. Blue jeans work better.

Atop what is today a second-hand thrift store, Anwar demonstrates the most efficient way of garrotting a victim, with a willing demonstrator. How does he live with himself? How did he face the horrors of his actions, Mr. Oppenheimer asks? Good food. Good drink. Marijuana. Dancing the cha cha; and with that, Anwar breaks into an impromptu dance to demonstrate his coping method. This is the surreality of the documentary: one moment we are witnessing a horrifying re-enactment, the next we are witnessing a dance. As the re-enactments continue, they grow in complexity, requiring the cooperation of other former death squad members, and the current members of Pancasila, who eagerly and excitedly don costumes and make-up.

The method in which Anwar and Adi tell their stories brings to the forefront a larger dialogue, not just about the nature of memory, but also about the impact of film on that very notion of memory. Anwar says that his demeanour and attitude during his tenure in the death squad was influenced by films starring Marlon Brando, Al Pacino, and John Wayne (in fact, Anwar's first duties as a gangster was to sell bootleg tickets to the local cinema). Anwar's actions predate the proliferation of mob films like The Godfather, and Scarface, of which he is surely thinking. However, when recreating his atrocities, he riotously costumes his extras in clearly cinematic and outlandish clothing, saying that this is how he would have dressed. In his unconscious, of course this is how a gangster dresses. To think otherwise is ridiculous.

Despite all these surreal moments, eventually Anwar and Adi begin to question their own actions during this period. At first, it dawns on them just how prolific their "secret" actions were: while interviewing a newspaper editor who worked during the regime, an assistant editor says "You guys were having interrogations right in that room, and no one knew! It was amazing!" "What do you mean 'you did not know'? Everyone knew. Your boss knew. There is no way you could not have known what we were doing" Anwar counters, to a dumbfounded and silenced response. Later, while filming the re-enactment of an interrogation, Adi points out that, if they recreate their crimes as they remember them, then people will know that those they deemed "Communists" were innocent, and that they, the perpetrators, were in fact guilty. At no point prior (and this is about an hour into the film) had this thought crossed their minds. To the gangsters, these old monsters, what they are doing is reliving their glory days, their fond memories. They were bragging and showing off to the younger generation. But at this, they start to realize exactly what it is they have done.

Anwar's realization begins when he plays one of his own victims. He sits in a chair, made up, "bloodied", and intimidated by his colleagues, who hold a knife to his face. "No, you have to be rougher. Louder." they say, shoving his head around. And in his face, you can see Anwar losing his composure. He was always the man in control, the one with the knife and the threats and the power. And here, for the first time probably in his entire life, he knows what it is to be powerless. When he re-watches the scene later on, at home, with his grandchildren, he shuts it off halfway, visibly shaken. And when speaking to Mr. Oppenheimer, this exchange occurs:

Anwar: Did the people I tortured feel the way I do here? I can feel what the people I tortured felt. Because here my dignity has been destroyed, and then fear come, right there and then. All the terror suddenly possessed my body. It surrounded me, and possessed me. 
Joshua Oppenheimer: Actually, the people you tortured felt far worse, because you knew it's only a film. They knew they were being killed.
Anwar: But I can feel it, Josh. Really, I feel it. Or have I sinned. I did this to so many people, Josh. Is it all coming back to me? I really hope it won't. I don't want it to, Josh.

He has just felt, for the first time, the last emotions his victims all felt. But for us, the viewers, the realization hits in much more visceral way. It comes through with a sound.

Anwar, in the last scene of the film, is recounting the story of how he would execute his victims. He sits in the same building, the same renovated thrift store we'd visited earlier in the film. And he begins to tell a story, the same story he'd told earlier. Only at this point, he begins to gag. It's an odd sound, a dry heave of a grunt, sounding a bit like a cough and a fart, but coming very deep from the gut. He stops, apologizes, spits, and begins again. He stops again, gagging. And stumbles out of the building. The enormity of his actions, of everything he had done, the pain and death and crimes and atrocities, has finally hit him after nearly fifty years. And his body is rejecting it. The truth comes vomiting up out of him, ugly, painful, and very visceral.

When this moment occurred, I wept.

Anwar had faced his past, not when he spoke about it. Not when he re-enacted it. Not when he acted as his own victims. No, he faced it when he watched himself playing the victim. And this is the power of cinema. Knowing where he came from, the power he had and the gravitas he carried, Anwar's realization came in watching all of that ripped from him. Even made up, even pretending and acting in a scene, the very act of seeing something as profound and disturbing as the truth can bring someone as sociopathically inhuman to tears. Cinema shaped his life (how he conducted himself as a gangster), his memories (retrofitting his own chronology to believe that certain films were a "guideline", despite the impossibility of that), and finally his own understanding of himself. He has seen the truth, as well every person who watches this film and goes through this horrendous journey.

When the death of my grandfather, and dog, occurred, and I watched those films and empathized, it was because they had the power and ability to help me cope with my pain. For Anwar, that confrontation with himself, self-initiated by the very mthod of storytelling he employed, uncovered the demons he'd hoped to bury. And the ghosts of his victims are burned in his memory as readily as his image is captured in celluloid. It is not just his crime that is revealed, but that of an entire nation, one that is still run by self-proclaimed gangsters.

But if one criminal can come to face his own reality, perhaps there is still some hope.
All it takes is to sit alone in the dark, watch images on a screen, and realize the truth about yourself.

Please, everyone, watch this film.

Her

Her (2013) by Spike Jonze

From my sophomore year in high school (back in 2002) until around 2008 or so, I had what I can only describe as an online "relationship" with a girl I'd met at a camping trip.

We'd met and seen each other only once, for a few brief hours, and reconnected online using AIM (remember when that was a thing?) Every evening she and I would go online and converse for hours, talking about our days, our struggles, and our feelings. We grew to really care about each other. We came to love each other, in that stupid high school "it probably doesn't even matter" sort of way. When I graduated high school, she mailed me a graduation card with a picture of herself. When she graduated, I sent her one. Gradually, as the years passed, we spoke less and less. Until one day, she graduated college. I sent her a graduation card and a handwritten letter. We'd been in each others lives for about six years, and in that time only had those brief hours together when we were teenagers. I wrote her a goodbye, saying we'd always be friends, and she'd never be forgotten.

Her is the movie that reminded me exactly how that relationship, looking at it now, really did mean something.

Joaquin Phoenix plays Theodore Twombly,  a forty-something living in a Los Angeles that is not too far off into the future. He is going through a divorce with Catherine (Rooney Mara), works at an online "handwritten card" company ascribing feelings and emotions to other people's relationships, and is desperately lonely. He lives his little life, playing video games and being introverted, a timid man living a comfortably uncomfortable life. Intrigued by an artificially intelligent operating system (known simply as "OS"), Theodore makes the purchase, tailoring the program to fit and meet his personality. The two are "introduced" as the OS is adapting itself, choosing a female voice and personality, and dubbing itself "Samantha" (voiced by Scarlett Johannson). As Theordore tries (and fails) to commit and connect with the women around him, he finds that most of his needs are met by Samantha, and the two fall in love. Their relationship grows, yes, and they have their hangups, but Samantha is always with him, always interested in him, and pushes him to grow. She improves his writing (both grammatically, and stylistically, as his muse), and through him, Samantha learns what it means to have emotions, and what it means to even have consciousness. But, ultimately, they both prove too limiting to each other. They've grown together because of and in spite of each other.

This is an extremely sublime film.

Theodore and Samantha's infatuation relates perfectly in today's climate, where so many of our daily interactions are digital and rooted in a wireless existence. The paradox of being alive now is that for how interconnected and instant our lives are, so many remain disconnected emotionally, unable to relate to anyone in person. Even Theodore's job itself is a replacement for daily interactions: people pay a company to create heartfelt messages, dictated by a third person, and printed to appear handwritten. Emotions are an afterthought to be considered only after the fact, and that itself is a concept I myself feel. On the train ride home today, nowhere was there a headphone not in someone's ear, or a phone in someone's hand.

Again, that interconnectivity becomes all-empowering and extremely hindering simultaneously. Samantha knows everything about Theodore, based on his contacts, emails, daily interactions and, when he is able to carry her around on his phone, she can even see and travel with him. She hires a surrogate body to act as her and carry out her physical will; but she can never be someone physical, someone Theodore can lean on or hug. In return, Theodore is limited by his own mind and mortality; in later scenes he tries to read about psychology and philosophy, and theoretical mathematics, and tells her "after reading this a day, I'm almost done with this one page. This is way beyond me." As much as they love each other, there is too much of a gap, and in this case, love just isn't enough.

And the sublime qualities and philosophical implications of the movie come into play with these quandaries. Can a program become self-aware enough to genuinely feel? Even Samantha wonders about this, wondering if she is capable of love and emotion, or if she is just processing information in a way that is pre-programmed, and reacting in kind? Is it possible for her to grow into something far beyond even she imagined? And, finally, is it possible for Theodore to be so transformed by an artificial entity that he is never the same? Is it possible for him to exist beyond his own physical limitations (much like the OS-created Dr. Alan Watts, a program based on a philosopher dead from the 1970s and voiced by Brian Cox)? So much is brought up, and I love this movie for it.

Director Spike Jonze and cinematographer Hoyte van Hoytema create a palette that is both lush and warm in color and sterile in its composition (at least early on, prior to the depth of the Theodore/Samantha relationship). Theirs is a Los Angeles blanketed in neon and primary colors, a post-Tokyo environment with sterile, IKEA-apartment rooms. It is a future only about 5 years removed from the present. The camera follows Theodore, holding for long takes that would seem to mimic Samantha's seeming omnipresence over him as well, while intimacy is always hinted at but never explicitly shown (such as Theodore and Samantha's...intimate scene. You'll know what I mean. It's actually quite beautiful).

The score by Arcade Fire is a perfect counterpoint to the tone and beauty of the film, while Karen O's songs, sung by Johannson in that uniquely deep voice are actually quite haunting and extremely touching. The cast and supporting characters (particularly Amy Adams, who plays Theodore's friend Amy) are all terrific. Amy's character develops a relationship with her own OS, a situation that, as is revealed, becomes more common with the populace as the OS grows and evolves. But ultimately, Amy and Theodore, for all their introversion and solitude, find that they need the interaction that could only be found in other human beings. While they might not fill each and every one of their needs, they fill enough of each other's to matter. And my God...Scarlett Johannson is absolutely amazing in her role, imbuing Samantha with so much personality that she sits right beside HAL 9000 and GERTY in regards to amazing, resonant computer characters. She (Samantha) is perfect.

I could go on and on about how this film provoked so many questions about philosophy of mind, and memories of discussing David Chalmers in college, and debating whether physical experience is nothing more than an illusion, or whether we are all just processing and reacting to electrical impulses (much like Samantha.) This is a film ripe for discussion on so many levels, and equally as heartbreaking on so many levels.

My girlfriend cried twice. At the end of the film, all I felt was that if this film were a physical thing, I would hug it. This is one of the best films I've seen in the last 3-5 years, and definitely one of the most rich.

This is a film that reminds me why sometimes the only thing I need in life is a good movie. I love this film, and in watching it remember what it was like to really fall in love for the first time. I will definitely be seeing it again.

And you know what? I still have that card tucked away somewhere.

Star Trek Into Darkness

Star Trek Into Darkness (2013) by J.J. Abrams

This film is awful.

It took 3 viewings to realize it without any doubt whatsoever, but this is an awful, awful movie. This is like Star Trek V level bad. This film is so bad it actually makes me a bit angry thinking about it, not Tron Legacy or Serenity levels of mad, but mad nonetheless. And that's something I've never felt watching a Star Trek film the first time out. In retrospect I learn to see the flaws in a Star Trek film (especially the Next Generation films), but I never have walked out of a theatre thinking "Jeez, that was awful". There is so much wrong with this movie that I'm afraid this is going to be quite a long one (me, over-analyze and write much more about a film than should be acceptable in any reasonable circumstance? No!) From the first scene it was clear that this was not only a film that ignored the intelligence of Star Trek fans, but also of the audience itself in general.

The film opens with Kirk (Chris Pine) and Bones (Karl Urban) on the run from primitive inhabitants on the planet Nibiru (which is actually the name of a "hidden" planet in our solar system, according to some conspiracy theorists...*sigh*), having stolen some artefact or some such thing. Simultaneously, Spock (Zachary Quinto) is deep inside a volcano on Nibiru, attempting to detonate a cold fusion device that would prevent the volcano from exploding and thus destroying the planet. For whatever reason, the transporters on the Enterprise can't beam Spock aboard, and Kirk orders the entire ship over to the volcano to do a line-of-sight transport of Spock aboard.

Kirk hides the Enterprise under water, mere meters away from a Nibiru village, in order to keep it hidden from the natives, but allows the natives to see it fucking rising from the water. Sadly, at this point, mere minutes into the movie, I was immediately taken out of the film.

Let's try to ignore, for a minute, the fact that the Enterprise would be unable to withstand the pressure of being underwater (and it'd have to be underwater pretty damn deep to cover the entire thing and keep its lights and whatever bubbles are produced from its nacelles and ports and whatnot from being visible. There is a line from an episode of Futurama where the Planet Express ship is dragged underwater: "The pressure's too great! We'll implode!" "How much pressure can the ship withstand?" "Well, it's a spaceship. So anywhere between zero and one." Star Trek is currently less logical than a cartoon comedy series.) Again, even if the ship could hide underwater, why would it be parked so close to a primitive village? It could have parked like eight miles out to sea, away from any land whatsoever, and still achieved its goal.

There is absolutely no reason for it to be submerged, aside from the admittedly cool shot of it rising from the water.

And that's something that I sensed throughout this film; events and actions occur not because it advances the plot or characters, or even make sense, but simply because they look "cool". The complications inherent with the plot (as well as the "mysterious" twist thrown in regarding one of the characters) also work to make the film appear much smarter and cleverer than it really is. At the end of the day, it's an exercise in futility, and makes the film and, ultimately, the characters that much more stupid. Sure, the fact that the ship is underwater neither adds nor takes away from the plot, but that is the point: events and scenes shouldn't be thrown in for no reason. They should advance the plot and story. And the problem is that with this film, nothing seems to occur for the sake of advancing whatever story there is.

I am going to spoil the entire movie, but seeing as it's been out for nearly 2 months, if you haven't seen it by now, it's safe to assume you aren't going to see it. So, it turns out that there is a "mysterious" figure named John Harrison (Benedict Cumberbatch), an agent of Starfleet's secretive Section 33, and he's blown up an archives in London, as well as the meeting of several Starfleet admirals (including Kirk's mentor, Christopher Pike). Kirk and the crew track Harrison to Kronos, the Klingon home planet, and they arrest him to bring him back to Earth and answer for his crime.

In a twist that surprised no one, John Harrison is actually Khan Noonien Singh. He was found floating in his derelict frozen by Admiral Marcus (Peter Weller), who has secretly been building a massive starship, the subtly-named USS Vengeance, the first Federation starship built specifically for battle. Marcus, working on his own, has been blackmailing Khan by commandeering his crew and threatening to...start a war with the Klingons by bombarding their homeworld with special torpedoes that...house the frozen pods containing Khan's crew.

Or some shit like that.

Nothing in what could only be fleetingly called the plot makes sense. So, aside from the opening scene that doesn't make sense, there is section where Khan beams himself from Earth directly to Kronos, and there is a chase between Kirk and his away team, and several Klingon fighter-type vehicles, and they chase each other over and through pipes and tunnels and some industrial machinery, and then they land and go through some firefight and then Khan shows up in the nick of time and does some crazy kung-fu type fighting and just...surrenders. And that was all part of his plan. His plan was to get caught and reveal Admiral Marcus' plan.

However, the revelation of Khan's identity holds absolutely no weight. Nor does the scene later on, when the Vengeance disables the Enterprise, and it's falling into the Earth's atmosphere, and Kirk struggles to get the warp reactors realigned. First, he literally kicks it back into place. And, secondly, he dies. Normally that would be a source of deep emotional resonance: Kirk dies. He sacrifices himself for his crew, and Spock is there next to him, separated by a protective shielding, but unable to touch him, and Kirk is lamenting about how scared he is to die.

But his death isn't earned.

The emotions it is supposed to elicit are trite and shallow. Here in this instance we have known this incarnation of the crew for only one-and-a-half-films, separated by four years, and during their first adventure together they spent more time arguing with each other and trying to figure out how to work together for any real friendship to develop. Kirk is dying and scared, and we're supposed to feel sad because, hell, we're supposed to feel sad. I, for one, didn't genuinely feel sad. When Spock died in Wrath Of Khan it mattered: the friendship between Kirk and Spock had developed over the course of over 15 years by that point, spanning a television series, and one-and-a-half films. Khan, as a threat, was similarly looming and dangerous because of his appearance in the original series. In this film, when his identity is revealed to Kirk and company, no one bats an eye or even shrugs with a "Huh. Well, nice to meet you." He says that he is Khan, and then a few scenes later Spock calls up Spock Prime (Leonard Nimoy) and asks about Khan, and we are told that Khan is dangerous. Only then is he approached as a threat. This is a film that tells us so much about characters and motivations, but never allows a character to show us; there is a literal deus ex machina moment with Spock Prime explaining Khan's viciousness that it is almost insulting to not only the audience, but to the characters themselves.

Barring the nonsensical psuedo-science present herein (the aforementioned submersed Enterprise; Khan beaming himself literally halfway across the galaxy and then finding the main characters seemingly by random; the fact that the Vengeance, a massive vessel several times larger than the 1200+ meter long Enterprise, was built in secret and can for some reason be controlled by a single person; the fact that the Enterprise drops out of warp mere miles from the moon and then floats to Earth in a matter of minutes when in actuality it would take at least 60 hours; the fact that the Enterprise literally falls to Earth, as if someone dropped it, as opposed to it falling from a decaying orbit like it should...**sigh**), the drama of the film (and, by extension this new Star Trek universe) is ultimately hollow. Khan's blood has the ability to cure disease and bring people back from the dead; so, of course, a mere 10 minutes after Kirk dies he is brought back to life, thus undoing whatever emotion his death scene might have earned. People in this universe still have the ability to beam from one planet to the other, thus rendering the need for starships moot (especially miles-long starships that could be flown by one person!).

The first Star Trek reboot had plot holes and inconsistencies, but what it lacked in  solid plotting it made up for in sheer fun, spectacle, and charm. Each actor had their moment to shine in the film, and the chemistry was palpable. The core of each character was present, even if it was in a slightly ramped-up pace. Nothing in this sequel feels earned or real. If the first film placed emotions above plot, this sequel does the opposite, and does so at the expense of a solid story and earned sacrifices. It is as if this film is more concerned with throwing in as many references to the official canon as possible, and hoping that it would congeal into a coherent gripping story; but with no emotional connection to the characters, and without an ounce of earned emotion, it is all sound and fury. Kirk dies for nothing. Khan is thrown in for nothing. Alice Eve's Carol Marcus is thrown in for nothing. This is a film that is, ultimately, inconsequential. Even Michael Giacchino's score (a composer of whom I am a moderate fan) is forgettable.

JJ Abrams' "mystery box" method of filmmaking, while admirable, does him a horrible disservice here. Khan's presence adds nothing to the film. He'd be better off learning about the subtlety of a big twist from Iron Man 3.

Man Of Steel (2013)

Man Of Steel (2013) by Zack Snyder

Man Of Steel is sadly unbalanced, and that is in spite of its spectacle, which is exactly what Superman fans have been clamoring about since 2006's disappointing Superman Returns (which had its moments, mind you, in particular the airline rescue). There's a lot that this film does right in terms of making Superman a viable, interesting character in 2013 (it's been exactly 75 years since his first appearance, and he's been reinvented too many times over those years to boot). One of my favorite memories from when I lived in the Bronx (as a wee little one) was watching Richard Donner's original Superman: The Movie and being enthralled with the experience, getting what I can only describe as a warm, fuzzy feeling by the end of it. There is such charm and warmth to it, it's like wrapping yourself up in a warm blanket and eating cereal on a Saturday morning. Just earlier this week I revisited it with my girlfriend, who had vague memories of watching it, and by the end we were all smiles. 

There's something about that film, and about Superman in particular, that brings comfort and stability in an uncertain, sometimes petrifying world. 

Man Of Steel only hints at that wonder, which is a shame.

We know the story of Superman, his origins, his doomed world and what his journey to Earth meant not only to his birth parents, Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van (Russell Crowe and Ayalet Zurer, respectively), but to his adoptive parents Jonathan and Martha Kent (Kevin Costner and Diane Lane), and to humanity at large. As the opening scenes indicate, Kal-El's birth is an event in and of itself, as on Krypton the population is bred (essentially “grown” in pods that resemble the Matrix pods) for specific roles (politicians, soldiers, scientists, etc.). The natural birth of Kal-El is the catalyst of major civil disputes, with General Zod (Michael Shannon) attempting a coup, and eventually getting thwarted and banished (along with his private army) to the equivalent of the Phantom Zone, but not before Zod shoves a scythe into Jor-El's abdomen, all this occurring some time before Krypton explodes. This sequence, despite taking some liberties that neither take away nor add to the established Superman canon yet can be met with nothing more than a shrug of the shoulders, is one of the most purely imaginative sequences in any mainstream comic book film. Giant reptilian creatures graze on plains, and flying dragons are used by Kryptonians the way we would use cars (and there is a marked diversity in typography and architecture, some buildings built out of the grown, some hanging down from the ceiling of giant caves). These creatures and elements are glossed over, hinting at a larger world, and the fact that they are given little to no explanation makes them that much more interesting. They just exist, we see them for a few seconds, and then they're gone. In the first 20 minutes, Man Of Steel packs more sci-fi goodness than an entire feature-length version of the explicitly sci-fi Green Lantern. 

 

Belaying the standard origins story prevalent with rebooting a major franchise of one of the most recognizable characters in human history, Man Of Steel intercuts modern-day Clark Kent's (Henry Cavill) journey to find himself with scenes of his growing up in Smallville (which is never mentioned by name, merely by a water tower in the background) and trying to cope with his growing powers. The flashback sequences are touching enough (particularly a scene where a school-age Clark has a freak-out in the middle of elementary school because he can hear everything, and can see through people without any control and Martha arrives to talk sense into him).

Despite the big-budget spectacle in terms of action, it's the smaller moments in Man Of Steel that repeatedly gave me the most goosebumps. When Jonathan is explaining to Clark that he is from another world, and shows him his spaceship and says “Somewhere out there you have another father and another mother”, and posits that Clark's very existence will change the way humans react to concepts such as religion and our place in the universe and Clark's only response is to ask “Can't I just go on pretending I'm your son” and Jonathan says, simply, “You are my son.”, it's such a touching moment and one to which I'm sure any child feeling confused about their lives and identities could relate. Later on, when Superman has first tried on his suit and is first testing the limits of his powers and he's bounding and hopping around (much like he was capable of doing back in 1938, before it was established he could fly), there's such unbridled joy on his face. Here is a man enjoying, as any one of us would given the situation, the fact that he could fly. 

 

So often I'd wanted Man Of Steel to express that joy and optimism, to continue those small moments that peppered 1978's Superman (and while it is unfair to compare the two for so many reasons, at least the tone in Superman was consistent. Superman, as a character, embodies the absolute pinnacle of human potential, a standard to which humans are to aspire; if nothing else, Superman got that aspect of the character right. Superman is the ultimate optimist, being challenged but never giving in to fear and doubt). After an hour or so into Man Of Steel, once the plot falls into place and General Zod makes known his presence and demands to humanity, the film takes a decidedly dark turn and undoes the very essence of Superman in one of those most irresponsible, protracted, and yet awesome brawls yet seen in a comic-book film.

Zod, having tracked the warp signature from Kal-El's ship to Earth, lays an ultimatum to humanity: deliver Superman, or he'll kill everyone. Superman turns himself in, essentially announcing his existence by surrendering immediately. This is entirely in line with who Superman is: selfless and willing to sacrifice himself for his adoptive world. Having learned that the entire future of the Kryptonian race lays in Superman's DNA, Zod proceeds to attempt terra-forming Earth to turn it into Krypton, using two gigantic World Engines, placed on opposite sides of the planet, to do so. From an idealistic perspective, both Superman and Zod have the same goals: preserve the existence of Krypton, but their methods are entirely converse. Superman wants to preserve Krypton in a more archaeological sense by preserving the history and culture through interactive recordings sent with him by his parents, and in a crashed Kryptonian scout ship that is treated as an impromptu Fortress of Solitude. Zod wants to preserve Krypton by rebuilding it from the ground up, even if it means genocide. Humans are nothing more than pests, ultimately, nothing more than collateral damage.

And in this last point, both Zod and Superman are one and the same.

During the climax of the film, Superman goes up against Zod and his legion of Kryptonian soldiers. The battle starts small, in Smallville, before being taken to Metropolis, where one of the World Engines is laying waste to entire miles of the city. Superman goes all out against the other Kryptonians (who are also endowed with superhuman strength and abilities, but who can somehow master them in days rather than decades), destroying most of Smallville in the process. Once the action moves to Metropolis, destruction on an even greater scale takes place. Buildings collapse, entire blocks are laid decimated, and even single punches between Zod and Superman result in shock-waves that break windows and destroy entire blocks.

In essence, Superman destroys most of Metropolis and presumably kills just as many people as Zod and his World Engines. 

This aspect of the film, the wanton destruction and irresponsibility displayed by Superman is something not to be taken lightly. Sure, this is Superman's first foray into unleashing his powers, and presumably he has no conception of the extent of the damage he is capable of, but above everything else, Superman is a protector. That is his primary role.

If the previous movie incarnations of Superman got anything right (and yes, this includes Superman Returns), it is his primary role. And this makes not only for great cinema, but also for great characterization; when Superman is late saving Lois Lane during Superman, resulting in her death, there is such loss and anguish and pain in that loss. But why did she die? It wasn't because he was too busy punching bad guys to care, it was because he was out saving all of California. Even in Superman II where there is a protracted fight between Superman, Zod, Ursa, and Non within downtown Metropolis, there are multiple instances where Superman stops to save a busload of people, or to keep a truck from blowing up, and he attempts to at least move the battle to a place where there is no risk of civilians being hurt. In Man Of Steel, Superman gives one line in Smallville (“Get everyone inside. They'll be safe there”), waits for civilians to hide out in their houses and stores, and then proceeds to lay waste to the very houses and stores where people are hiding. There is very little regard to humans, and, in essence, very little of that protector role. Why would humanity trust Superman after all this wanton destruction? How can he be a protector? In the end, when he returns a destroyed Army drone that was tracking him...why would he think the Army would act otherwise? He just blew up a major city, of course they'll want to track and spy on him!

With all that out of the way, how is the actual film? 

 

Amy Adams is great as Lois Lane; for once Lois is an actual journalist following leads and gathering sources and she can fucking spell. And while the actual legitimacy of why Zod would have her kidnapped and brought to space are sketchy (in essence, she is a plot device, nothing more), she still seems like someone who can kick ass when she needs to, but who still lacks the attitude and spunk that Lois typically employs. Henry Cavill, who up until this film was an unknown (in typical “Superman-leading-man” style) owns this role. He is actually given material to work with, and is allowed to make the character his own (unlike poor Brandon Routh, who was forced to do a Christopher Reeve impersonation for his single outing), and it's his smaller, quieter moments that sell him in the role. And the guy is fucking cut; he looks the way Superman should look (at least in a Tim Sale/Jim Lee/Denn O'Neill interpretation of the character; all muscles on top of muscles). The guy doesn't have a single ounce of fat on him, and that is fucking impressive. And he doesn't look at all bad in the redesigned costume (and kudos for getting rid of the red underpants. It was time to get away from those). Laurence Fishburne as Perry White offers the sort of no-nonsense, gruff attitude that most leading correspondents and editors exhibit (this witness from first-hand experience). Michael Shannon offers up a version of Zod who is less psychotic and regal (no “Kneel before Zod”'s to be found here!), creating a menacing threat of a villain that actually has a goal in mind, and who can at least have his evil attributed to his upbringing: he was designed, from birth, to be Krypton's protector, no matter what. And the fact that the only way to stop him was for Superman to snap his neck makes him that much more of a force (and don't give me that “Superman doesn't kill” bullshit; yeah, it's true in a modern context, but prior to the Comic Authority's incorporation in the 1950s, superheroes in comics regularly killed. Even Batman's earliest appearances in Detective Comics shows him brandishing a gun and killing his adversaries, often with impunity. Even in Superman II, Superman threw Zod down a fucking crevasse, after de-powering him, breaking his hand and punching him in the gut). 

 

Hans Zimmer's score is hands-down on of his best. The new theme (“What Will You Do When You're Not Saving The World”) starts small and quiet, before building to a crescendo that does much to get me pumped (I tend to play it on loop whenever I go running). The bombastic, bass and drum-heavy score imparts a lot of weight and scope to the film, making an epic story that much more so epic. At times it threatens to overpower the smaller, quieter moments of the film, but it doesn't take away it either. 

 

Director Zack Snyder thankfully does away with his speed-ramping, and actually allows for some breathing room. While he seems to be the go-to comic-book action film guy, he has a surprisingly sure hand with the smaller character moments. I tend to place the emphasis on wanton destruction to his trigger happy need for spectacle, but at least he understands that a major film of this scope needs spectacle (and no, Superman throwing an island into space does not count). He overdoes it here, and hopefully in the sequel (which is thankfully greenlit) these issues are addressed, and the repercussions of Superman's wanton destruction is explored. Hopefully his role in the world, as both a threat and protector, is further explored as well.

This film makes major missteps in regard to Superman's role as a protector, and, yeah, there are some plot holes, but they didn't take away from the ultimate experience. And while the coda of the film neatly throws the Superman archetypes neatly in order (he's got the glasses; he works at the Daily Planet---despite having zero journalist credentials---and Metropolis is somehow rebuilt....unless LexCorp is responsible for the quick recovery, which would actually be cool), the journey to that moment is great. This film, while darker than any previous Superman film, is a necessary reintroduction to a world gone cynical and weary. 

 

Hopefully Superman will once again be considered what he was always intended to be: a symbol not only of hope, but of the human potential for good in the world.

Captain America: The First Avenger

Captain America: The First Avenger (2001) by Joe Johnston

There is a part in Joe Johnston's Captain America where Steve Rogers (Chris Evans) is performing onstage with a chorus line of star-spangled girls, dressed in the somewhat ridiculous red-white-and-blue garb of his soon-to-be trademark uniform, and I just started to chuckle. Not out of spite, not out of irony, not because the whole premise of a superhero singing and dancing punching out an actor portraying Hitler is utterly ridiculous, but simply out of the fact that it was so charming and fun that I'd almost forgotten how great it is to just have fun at a comic book film. This, and Matthew Vaughn's X-Men: First Class (why haven't I written my review for that one yet?!), are two of the better comic-book based films to come out in the past few years due simply to the fact that they are both returns to the good old-fashioned "let's just have a good time and make a fine, polished film" era of comic book film-making. Again, these aren't the best in terms of long-term appeal, or in accomplished film making, but they never lose track of creating a spectacle for the audience.

The film in question is the origin story of the star-spangled man, Captain America, AKA Steve Rogers, who starts off as a determined, idealistic 90-lb. weakling constantly being shut out of the chance of fighting the Nazis overseas due to his small stature. Seeing potential in his determination and character, scientist Dr. Abraham Eskrine (Stanley Tucci) hand-picks Rogers to be the first of the proposed "Super Soldier" program, meant to inspire Allied troops in the face of Nazi propaganda (an interesting concept: a superhero created as a propaganda ploy). Due to sabotage (planned primarily by Johann Schmidtt, AKA the Red Skull, played with a German accent worthy of Werner Herzog by the ever-great Hugo Weaving), Rogers is the only Super Soldier to see fruition, and his work as a USO stage-player leads to his eventual rescue of a group of captured infantry that would, in the comics, be known as the Howling Commandos. Rogers eventually faces his doppelganger, Red Skull, himself the result of Eskrine's super-soldier program, and the latter's attempt to shift the course of the war with sapce-age weapons powered by the Cosmic Cube (which is alluded to in 2011's other Marvel Studios release, the rather inferior Thor). That the Cosmic Cube plays into Marvel's Phase 1 series of films is a given, provided by the heft of weight placed upon it. The film ends with a preview of The Avengers, the tie-in film that finds all of Marvel Studios' characters united in a single film.

As a stand-alone film, Captain America serves a dual purpose: tying together most of the loose threads leading up to The Avengers, and introducing one of Marvel's top tier characters in a worthy feature film. However, the inclusion of the Cosmic Cube and its importance in the larger scheme of things sometimes feels a bit rushed, as if the studio is more concerned with throwing as much continuity into the film as possible in the lead up to The Avengers, as opposed to just letting the film develop naturally. And while director Joe Johnston is certainly guilty of allowing the bloating to occur (in fact, he's beholden to do so, if he wants to get paid), he still manages to create a fun film.

Again, "FUN" is the key component here. There are very few instances or standalone story lines that feature Captain America entering into dark, gritty territory, and thankfully this film doesn't adhere to the modern trend of superhero films fitting into "real world" scenarios. Captain America embodies all that is great and best not only of this country (which, honestly, needs an image boost), but of humanity in general. We need to be reminded that sometimes a hero can save lives, punch bad guys, throw jokes, and be just an overall good guy. Too cynical is the world in which we live, and that's sad. There are sequences in this film that remind me that, yes, Joss Whedon is a great writer (almost every line that Tommy Lee Jones says is golden,), and that Joe Johnston (who cut his teeth with Steven Spielberg on the Indiana Jones films) is a competent action director, if lacking any visual flair. Is this movie a classic? Not at all, nowhere near a classic. But it's fun, and that's more than I can ask for in an action superhero comic film. I'd never ask my mom to watch The Dark Knight, but she and my dad and I had a blast with this film. That in and of itself is an achievement.

Look, we live in dark times that are confusing, and sometimes even I get angry about all the shit going on around me. But it's wonderful and refreshing to go to a movie where we see people working together to fight a common evil, who are just outright good people, no matter what, and are willing to risk their lives for a greater cause. Is Captain America my favorite superhero film? No, that will always, ALWAYS be relegated to Superman: The Movie, but for a Marvel Studios film that just has a great vibe, solid cast, and a lot of fun? Well, it kind of takes the cake in that regard.

A Good Day To Die Hard (2013) by John Moore

It had been quite a fucking while there, no?

By all accounts, it is unfair of me to review this movie because I only saw about an hour of it. I couldn't stand to see the rest, and this is only one of two films I've ever walked out on, and the first during which I'd actually fallen asleep. From its loud, obnoxious, confusing, insipid and uninspired action, to its massive plot holes and droll, unhappy characters, I couldn't stand this film and was happy when my date turned to me, eyes sad and depressed, and sad, "Can we please leave? This film is depressing".  And that is a massive, MASSIVE shame, because, despite all the negative reviews I'd read regarding this film, I still wanted to at least enjoy it on the same level as I had the previous entry, 2007's ridiculous Live Free Or Die Hard, which, while a "Die Hard" film in name only, remains my "start of summer" fun movie. I can honestly enjoy it for what it is, despite the fact that it is a bad, idiotic film. This latest entry though? It's just...sad. It exists and simply remains there, loud and obnoxious and telling us that this is what "Die Hard" is about and, God damn it all, it is anything but.
The plot, so far as there was one, involves a character who happens to be named John McClane, played by Bruce Willis, who played a more interesting character of the same name from 1988 through 1995, and his trip to Russia to rescue his son, Jack (played with a wasted determination by Jai Courtney) who is implicated in the attempted assassination of a Russian politician (played by Sebastian Koch? I honestly don't know. There's only so much movie one can pay attention to in between naps). There are apparently double- and triple-crosses, and victims are really villains, and ultimately all paths lead to Chernobyl. For some reason.
There is such lifeless banality to John McClane this time around that the entire film is a lifeless, joyless affair that, unlike Live Free..., is so un-fun it ruined the entire film and for me made me even question the notion of "fun" as a concept. Plot holes trip over themselves in a vain attempt to escape the confines of celluloid, such that what I am about to write in the exact next sentence is something that actually happened: so John McClane finds out his son is arrested in Russia, and his cop friend hacks some Russian files so John can study them; McClane, on a plane headed to Moscow, studies the Russian ploice files on his son. Close-ups indicate that, yes, they are indeed in Russian. The exact next scene finds McClane in the back of a Russian taxi, using am English-to-Russian dictionary to direct the cab to the courthouse. In the only instance where John McClane resembles anything like a human being, McClane flubs his translation. Here's the point: on the plane, McClane's reading the Russian file on his son like it ain't no thang, but in the cab he can't even say that he wants to go to the courthouse. Can the motherfucker speak Russian, or can't he? Please, be consistent with me movie. Be honest. If Live Free... can make me believe that McClane can fly a helicopter despite the fact that flying is one of his mortal fears, I will accept that the man can at least speak Russian...if you can at least meet me halfway. 
Immediately following this scene is a shootout in the courthouse, followed by one of the most confusing, overdrawn chase sequences since the entirety of Quantum Of Solace. McClane, having literally randomly run into his son as Jack is trying to escape with an informant he is to protect, leaps into a flatbed truck and, knowing nothing about any of the proceedings or why his son is being chased by who, rams his vehicle into oncoming traffic, eventually slamming the truck head-on into parked cars, where it flips over, completely destroyed.
John McClane climbs out and walks off like absolutely nothing happened, gets back into another car, and continues as if nothing out of the ordinary is going on. 
It is around this scene that I started to pass out. And that's the biggest shame of it all; in the middle of a "Die Hard" movie, with elaborate set pieces, and which is shorter in length than any of the other four films, I was bored out of my mind.
As I've stated before, I can enjoy a big dumb movie so long as it's consistent with it's gaps in logic and it's leaps in believability, and so long as it is earnest and fun. This is a dark (not tonally, just in terms of lighting), empty, soulless, sad affair, a film made simply to keep the rights to a character and name that rightly had no place being the fuck in the middle of Russia (or Chernobyl, for that fact...a location the characters actually go without ANY RADIOACTIVE PROTECTION WHATSOEVER).
Gone are the days of slow character development and cleverness, where the pacing pushes the story in such a palpable, concrete way it is almost a character of its own (for example, the slow build up in the first Die Hard film, establishing McClane's fear of heights, lack of shoes, indecision when it comes to saving Takagi...this is all slow build up, leading to an establishment of character. We get to know these people, and take the time to know not only their strengths, but their fears and weaknesses as well. By the end of the first film (hell, by the middle of the second act of the first film), McClane is beaten, bloodied beyond compare, walking on sliced up feet, exhausted, and almost defeated entirely. Here, in this film, there's an unstoppable thing called "John McClane", who seems to come alive only when he's killing bad guys and firing guns and surviving insane car crashes and making limp puns over the deafening sound of gunfire with too much bass. Here there is a film who's mid-act stunt involves jumping out of a window to avoid a helicopter gunfire, whose climax is set in MOTHERFUCKING CHERNOBYL, and whose main character comes away with less physical bodily damage than in his last film, in which he surfed an F18 jet before shooting a bullet through his already-shot shoulder. Here is a John McClane who has evolved, fully, into the very action caricature that he was the absolute antithesis of in 1988.
And therein lies the irony. At least Sylvester Stallone had the good sense to ground the last Rambo film with some sense of realism (make Rambo part of a team; address his age, address the previous films while developing off of them; have some Goddamn PACING, sure, 2008's Rambo was essentially a two-act film, but it didn't try to shove in some familial issues or sappy romance or confusing action). For a Die Hard film, this movie has more in common with XXX or Abduction or any other cheap action flick.
The cinematography is beyond confusing, the script (by The A-Team's Skip Woods) has such lapses in logic and coherence as well as a complete disregard for everything that made the previous entries fun that it's difficult to tell if the film is even trying to be serious (the entire climax takes place in Chrenobyl...where there was a giant fucking radioactive meltdown? And John and Jack run around with absolutely no protection whatsoever? And the audience is reminded at least 3 times throughout the film about what the fuck Chernobyl is, because apparently a major global event from the past 30 years is inconsequential?)
The Die Hard series is done, it's gone. With the last film it lost its sense of realism and depth, and with this film it lost its sense of fun. The quips are gone, none of the characters are real people (or even the exaggerated, broad-strokes "character types" that most modern action films tend to exhibit). Perhaps this is the modern state of action films now. Perhaps this is what we demand of our heroes: unstoppable, inconsequential, all-knowing, indestructible, and ultimately boring. 
So perhaps the Die Hard series is dead.
It had its run, it's finished.
Let's just leave it be and move on, shall we?

Green Lantern

Green Lantern (2011) by Martin Campbell

Green Lantern was a letdown, but I'm interested in the sequel. There is no other way to describe this film, an adaptation of the long-running B-List DC Comics cosmic superhero. There was so much potential with this film, so much for it to get right (an epic cosmic setting; a likable---if somewhat miscast---leading man; some decent-to-good supporting actors; the potential for images and set-pieces that go beyond anything that has so far been shown in comic book films; a director who knows how to stage exciting action as well as introduce audiences to action characters), but in the end it felt too much like a half-assed attempt to create a lower-budgeted, slightly less-charming, DC-version of Iron Man. DC's track history of adapting their characters into successful films seems to begin and end with Superman and Batman, and even then with mixed results.

The film introduces us to Hal Jordan (a charismatic yet miscast Ryan Reynolds), a hotshot test pilot working with Carol Ferris (a vapid Blake Lively), another test pilot whose father, Carl (Jay O. Sanders) owns the prestigious Ferris Aircraft company, and whose government contracts Hal jeopardizes during a test run of their drone fighter jets. Following his test flight, Hal encounters the purple-skinned alien, Abin Sur (Temura Morrison), who has crashed-landed off a beach in Coast City following an encounter with the fear-fueled entity Parallax. Hal, it is explained, has been chosen to be a member of the intergalactic Green Lantern Corps, essentially a galactic police force. Abin Sur's ring, powered by a central battery on the ancient planet Oa, chose Hal for his courage, spirit, and responsibility, features which he and his friends fail to see. Meanwhile, Professor Hector Hammond (the severely underused Peter Sarsgaard), having been hired by Amanda Waller (Angela Bassett) to perform a postmortem on Abin Sur, contacts a minuscule amount of yellow energy, which is what powers Parallax, and begins a bizarre transformation into a deformed, telekinetic villain.

Now, that might make it seem like the movie has some interesting points, and, to its credit, I loved the parts that were set in space. The Hal Jordan incarnation of the Green Lantern is a cosmic science fiction story, set in space and encountering aliens and bizarre forms of life. It's like a 1950's sci-fi serial, but with a superhero angle to it, and the potential for exciting, cosmic derring-do on the big screen (and in 3D!) were apparent. Sadly, though, this film feels like a bipolar patient: should it be big and swooping and grand and epic, or should it spend most of its runtime in an apartment spouting exposition? Should we see the character create matter out of pure thought and will, things that boggle the imagination and are limited only by the boundaries of human imagination, or should we continue to make the audience endure a trite love story involving two characters who have no chemistry and nothing in common aside from us being told that they grew up together and they're both attractive so...why the fuck not?! Should we show Kilowog for the briefest of scenes, and waste Mark Strong, perfectly cast as Sinestro, or should we allow Peter Sarsgaard ham it up in a role that was obviously edited down to something much more goofy and silly and nonthreatening? Should we show all the cool, kick-ass cosmic adventures, or should we, once again (***yawn***) have the characters just sit in an apartment and talk?

I mention the apartments because 1/3 of the movie is set in apartments; either Hal's or Hector's. And...it's unexplainable. One of the clearest examples of how convoluted this film is occurs late in the second act (**SPOILER ALERT...I GUESS**): Hector Hammond has broken out of being strapped to an examination table, and has threatened to kill his own father, Senator Hammond (Tim Robbins). Hector now exhibits telekinetic powers and is a viable threat to Hal Jordan. Jordan appears, the two fight each other briefly (Hector getting melted fucking glass thrown in his face), and then Hector disappears as Jordan remains, disturbed and dispirited by his failure to capture Hector. In the NEXT SHOT, Hector Hammond is in his apartment, writhing on his bed, and Jordan, too, returns to HIS apartment, and immediately sits down to feel sorry for himself. Next scene? Carol is giving Jordan a pep talk in his very apartment, telling him to get off his ass and use his crazy-ass space ring to save the world. The film went from telekinetic action fight scene, to both characters just wasting time at home. Again, it doesn't make a lick of sense, and tonally it's just bizarre.

The film suffers from an almost palpable sense of lack of self-confidence, and seems to be unable to decide whether it should go for the scope it deserves, or if it should just save that for the sequel. Hopefully, the inevitable sequel (it's already in the works by WB, which is desperate for a new, post-Harry Potter franchise) goes bigger and better and more fantastic.

Despite its lack of scale and cosmic scope, the two lead roles (Ryan Reynolds, and Peter Sarsgaard) do their absolute best to make the material work. Reynolds (while not my first choice; Nathan Fillion, despite his age, would have made the perfect Hal) is likable and charming enough to pull off the cockiness of Hal, and seems fit enough to pull off the physicality of the role, despite his range being slightly stunted (Hal is either doubtful of himself, or self-assured. That's about the range of his emotions. There is nothing else to him).I was never bored with Hal, but felt that he was sometimes a bit to hung up with the "I'm not good enough for the Corps" lamentation, nor could I stand the fact that it took his girlfriend to snap him out of his funk and make him man up and embrace his cosmic role.

Peter Sarsgaard, on the other hand, hams it up (after a build-up), offering a thankfully lively role to contrast against Blake Lively, who is beyond cardboard thin, and miscast as a test pilot herself. Sarsgaard's Hammond---a dweebish college science professor (who works in a building labeled “Science Building”)---plays the villainous role as broadly as a mustache-twirling mad scientist, and seems to be enjoying the change of pace, rather than continually playing psychologically heavy, flawed characters. Here, Hammond's biggest trait (aside from his grotesquely huge forehead and telekinetic power), is being a disappointment to his father, and Sarsgaard manages to portray this inner turmoil in a surprisingly nuanced manner (up until the point where he hams it up entirely in the aforementioned telekinetic fight scene). Knowing little about the comic incarnation of the character, I don't know how faithful Sarsgaard's interpretation truly is, and while there were a few abrupt scene transitions and motivations in his character, I attribute that more to the editing of the film rather than the script itself.

The script itself isn't as bad as others might make it out to be. In fact, again, I felt that all of the cosmic, space-set scenes worked perfectly. I imagine that the prospect of introducing a B-list comic character, one based in science fiction and with a villain none might not recognize outside of the hardcore fans, would have been an incredibly hard sell. That is the only reason I can imagine for the film's insistence on staying in Coast City, in Hal's apartment cracking wise and continually doubting his worthiness of being a Lantern: we can all relate to someone just sitting around an apartment, as opposed to someone with a cosmic space ring. Sure, it's easy to relate, but it makes for lackluster storytelling.

Green Lantern is another example of DC's inability to allow its loftiest characters truly bloom into the epic adventures they deserve (just look at Superman Returns for another recent example). It has a very checkered history of success, with its best recent films (the rebooted Batman series; Constantine, and even the flawed if incredibly ambitious Watchmen) being based mainly on its Vertigo line, or in its animated features. DC, as opposed to Marvel, is and has always been in the nature of creating gods, beings from other worlds with incredible super powers. Green Lantern's main flaws, again, is in failing to trust its own strengths, its own mythology, and in assuming the audience wouldn't want to care about anything set in space. The set pieces seem sadly sedate (Hal embraces his role as Green Lantern following a lackluster helicopter near-crash), except, of course, when set in space (Hal's training on Oa is probably the best part of the whole film, but even then it feels like a few scenes were cut for brevity's sake, since Hal quits the Corps after only about a day of training).

A sequel is already greenlit, and hopefully this time around, the filmmakers will allow Green Lantern to truly soar to the heights only hinted at here. This is an epic, grand, cosmic world with an immense scale...surely, audiences would rather see Hal and Sinestro duking it out in deep space, rather than some brown cloud floating in and gobbling up nameless people running around in a city. Despite its flaws, I'm hoping that since all the mythology introduction is out of the way and the character established, we can move on to the grander scales. If Thor (a cosmic/science fiction/action/comic book/fantasy film) could be entertaining, despite featuring a character few non-comic fans can even mention, then there's no reason why a Green Lantern sequel has to suck. And for God's sake, cut out the post-converted 3D...it's distracting. Some scenes were slightly out-of-focus, or suffered from a ghosting of the images on screen. And, ultimately, it didn't add anything to the film (aside from another $5 to the ticket price).