On Ragnarok, Rasslin', and Taking The Silly Thing Seriously

So I saw Thor: Ragnarok.  It was a Marvel movie.  That is my review of it.

You can practically hear a cheesy synthesizer riff just by looking at this thing.

Look, I know at this point the Marvel formula is what it is.  Fans gush over how fun and light-hearted the movies are, detractors point out that they all look and sound and feel the same, and every time one of them comes out, we get a billion "see?  Marvel's perfect and beyond reproach while DC is incapable of doing anything right" articles and a slew of hoity-toity articles and videos essays about "the Marvel Problem" and "the danger of cinematic universes" and how oversaturating the market will inevitably cause the 'superhero bubble' to burst.  Each one makes a bajillion dollars, each one gets an enthusiastic BJ from the Rotten Tomatoes crowd, and then each one fades into the background as another brick in the Big Red Wall.

I can't honestly say I enjoyed Ragnarok, and that bugs me, because I don't really like coming off as some snobby curmudgeon, turning my nose up at the things that the 'common folk' love.  And it's not as if the film is particularly bad, at least no worse than the usual standard MCU film-- it's stylistically flat, sure, and a lot of the costumes look either cheap or silly, and I never really connected with any of the characters, and it basically wipes its ass with the source material, but it's still competently put together, it made me laugh a couple of times, and while I was never fully invested I was never bored or overtly turned-off.  I believe that the Marvel movies bank on the same approach to cinema as McDonald's does to hamburgers: not through outstanding or memorable excellence, but through comfortably predictable competence.  They never have to be great, they just have to be good enough, and people will keep coming back for more.

But I'm not really here to go into a big long-winded rant about Ragnarok itself, or the wisdom of plotting out thirty movies in advance, or the balance between artistic vision and business acumen.  No, I'm here to talk about "humor," and why I've kinda sorta started to hate it

I'm glad that at least one of us is having a good time.

Ever since 2013 and the chilly reception DC's Man of Steel got upon its release, Marvel has leaned harder and harder on comedy to keep fans and critics happy.  More and more, action sequences are punctuated with wacky clown slapstick.  Characters who were once fully engaged in the story and the world around them become scenery-chewing comedians.  Moments of genuine emotional earnestness or tension are few and far between, because they keep telling us over and over that there's nothing to get too worked up about (incidentally, this is why virtually all of Marvel's villains come off as ineffectual and forgettable, despite often having A-list talent in the roles: why should the audience care about the bad guy if the heroes don't?)  All of this is done while having praise heaped upon them, each one bandied about as a "breath of fresh air" and a huge relief that they didn't commit the unforgivable sin of Taking The Silly Thing Seriously.

"Well, of course, you're not supposed to take superheroes seriously," the common argument goes.  "It's a silly genre about grown men in spandex fighting aliens and stuff!  The only way to really do it right is to embrace the inherent absurdity of it, to play up the camp and the cheesiness, and just treat it as the kids' stuff that it is!"

Bullshit.  Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

Careful, if you say that five times fast, Penn and Teller appear and start making fun of Creationists and selling you on the merits of Objectivism.

This is usually meant as a slight against the DCEU, and while there are plenty of legitimate criticisms to be made about those films, I don't believe "too serious" is one of them.  An absurd or unrealistic premise does not preclude the ability to take a medium seriously.  That line of thinking willfully ignores the success of Fox's work on Logan and their outstanding Legion TV show, not to mention Marvel's own smash-hits on Netflix, or DC's game-changer that was The Dark Knight.  Hell, the most popular shows on television right now are deadly-serious shows about zombies and dragons and robots that dress up like cowboys.

Humor is not a bad thing, and it certainly has its place in genre fiction.  But having it doesn't automatically make a film better, and not having it doesn't automatically make it worse.  It's a useful tool in the right hands, but it's not the be-all end-all of what a genre should strive for, even a silly and nonsensical one about guys in tights.

And I know that, because I'm a wrestling fan.

There's a stigma about wrestling fans, that we're all a bunch of clueless rubes who are being tricked into thinking what we're seeing is a 'real' sport.  And while in the modern day it's pretty much accepted that kayfabe (wrestling's term for the Fourth Wall) is well and truly dead, even long before the cartoonish 'rock-n-wrestling' era of Hulk Hogan and Macho Man Randy Savage, the vast majority of audiences knew what was up- even if they never said so out loud.  Just like with comic books, D&D, science fiction, anime, and any other corner of geek culture, to truly enjoy pro wrestling, yes, you have to embrace the fact that it's silly and unrealistic, you have to accept that it's camp and melodrama....

....and then you have to get the hell over that fact.

Professional wrestling is, in a word, ridiculous.  It's stupid and silly, and no one over the age of five could watch more than a few seconds of it and genuinely believe their overblown pantomime-combat has anything to do with the real world.....and it can also be some of the most captivating and engaging stuff on television.  While it's often trashy and scatterbrained (and WWE has a really bad habit of revising its own history for seemingly no reason), at its best, pro wrestling offers a unique type of long-form storytelling that can affect characters over months and even years.  And once you accept and come to terms with the inherent absurdity of the genre, you can allow yourself to be immersed in stories full of triumph and tragedy, horror and pathos, spectacle and drama worthy of the classical Greeks.  To really get the most out of a good wrestling show, you have to commit the great faux-pas of our overly ironic and self-aware culture: you have to Take The Silly Thing Seriously.

For an example, I want to recount one of my favorite stories I've seen as a wrestling fan, one that spans three years but calls back across the decades-long careers of iconic figures.  It's a story of hubris, of obsession, of grace and damnation, and ultimately, of endings.  And it happens through the medium of pretend-fighting between grown men in tights.

It is the Ballad of Shawn Michaels: a tragedy in three acts.

With an expression like that, you know things can only go well.

Act I of our story begins with another story's end, the final glorious minutes in the career of the greatest wrestler in the history of the business.  It's WrestleMania 24, and Ric Flair, the Nature Boy, the 16-time World Champion and undisputed legend among legends, has finally felt his age catch up to him, and while he can't bring himself to admit it, deep down he knows it's time to go.  For his opponent, he has chosen a fellow legend: Shawn Michaels, the Heartbreak Kid, the Showstopper, "Mr. WrestleMania" himself.  By this time, both men had seen and done it all-- championships, main events, faction wars, you name it-- but they had never actually met one-on-one before.  So the decision was made, a 'dream match' pitting icon against icon, once-in-a-lifetime, with the stipulation that if Michaels won, Flair would have to retire for good.

The match itself was an instant classic, but more than simply being an entertaining meeting between two consummate showmen, it was a celebration of Flair's career.  With every hold, every strike, every counter, it was clear that Flair wasn't just fighting Michaels in that ring.  He was slugging it out in a blood-soaked cage with Harley Race at the original Starrcade.  He was going move-for-move with Ricky Steamboat at the Chi-Town Rumble.  He was pulling out every dirty trick against Sting at Clash of the Champions.  While Michaels was bringing every bit of his A-game, Flair was summoning the memories of nearly four decades at the top of the world, and would be damned if he was going to let it end.

But end it would.  As the match continued, it became more and more apparent that Michaels still had plenty left in him, and Flair.....didn't.  Barely surviving being struck twice with Michaels' signature 'Sweet Chin Music' (a stepping sidekick to the jaw), it was all Flair could do to pull himself to his feet, legs trembling, fists balled up in spiteful defiance.  In that moment, he was no longer Ric Flair, the Nature Boy, the Dirtiest Player in the Game.  He was Richard Fleihr, a tired old man who didn't know how to let go, and needed someone to do it for him.

With a nod, Michaels acknowledged what had to be done.  He looked across the ring at a man he had revered, and said "I'm sorry.  I love you."

A split-second later, Shawn's foot cracked across Flair's jaw one more time, and it was over.  The most storied career in the history of wrestling had come to an end.  It was bitter work, but it was also the biggest and most important victory in Shawn's career.  As the crowd gave Ric a standing ovation and he said his tear-filled farewells, Michaels felt the weight of his accomplishment, and of his new position. So many of the other legends, the all-time greats, were gone now, having left to make movies or succumbed to injuries or died from drug abuse or simply old age.  He was now all alone at the top of the mountain.

Act II takes place a year later.  Following his bittersweet triumph over Ric Flair, Shawn Michaels was riding high, having won one high-profile match after another: defeating the monster (and future Marvel superhero) Dave Bautista, then coming out victorious in a vicious and deeply personal feud against Chris Jericho, and finally besting the standard 'evil rich guy' of the day, John Bradshaw Layfield.  He was untouchable at this point, head and shoulders above everyone in the company, and he knew it.

Still, it wasn't enough.  He had won titles before, he had beaten legends in the past.  And while he had all of this momentum behind him, it was time to do something nobody had ever done before.  Something that many considered impossible.  Shawn Michaels declared that he, and he alone, would be the one to end The Streak.

Enter: The Undertaker.

Even if you're not a wrestling fan, chances are you've heard of the Undertaker.  He's not on the same level of fame as Hulk Hogan or the Rock, but he's been so prominent for so long he's become something of a household name regardless.  And while he's only quasi-famous outside of the wrestling world, inside it he's practically God, revered by fans and fellow wrestlers alike.  At this stage in his career, Taker had transcended the standard 'good guy/bad guy' dichotomy and was treated almost like an outright force of nature, emerging from shadows and mists like a figure in a ghost story to put down those foolhardy enough to think they could triumph over the grave.  He was almost a walking metaphor for death itself, beyond good and evil, a cold and unfeeling fact that came for everyone in the end.

What's more, among his own collection of titles and accolades, the Undertaker had something no one else had: a sixteen-year undefeated streak at WrestleMania.  What had started as a mere statistical quirk had grown over the years into the stuff of legend, and every year, someone would call out the Dead Man, believing they could be the one to end 'The Streak.'  Time and time again they were proven wrong, either because Taker really did have some sort of supernatural powers or because he was just a tough old bastard who wouldn't be put down.  Giants, champions, and icons had all stepped up, but no one seemed to be able to break The Streak.

And that's exactly why Shawn Michaels knew, deep down, that he was the man to do it.  Someone wins the main event of WrestleMania every year, but he was the only one who'd ever done it in a grueling hour-long Iron Man match.  Someone wins the Royal Rumble every year, but he was the first who had entered in the #1 spot and lasted all the way through.

And most importantly, he had fought the Undertaker several times in the past, and had beaten him every time.  While Taker was more powerful than Michaels by far, Shawn always found a way to outfox him, by hook or by crook.  Michaels was special, he was one-of-a-kind.  He was the only person who could end the legendary Streak, and end the Undertaker's myth the way he did Ric Flair's a year before.

So the stage was set for WrestleMania 25.  Shawn Michaels, looking to solidify his spot as the all-time best by accomplishing the impossible.  The Undertaker, in a match he'd never lost, but against an opponent he'd never beaten.  Michaels, high on a wave of unshakable confidence and righteous certainty, descended from the rafters in an all-white mockery of Taker's trademark black hat and coat, declaring himself the light to his darkness, and believing that by overcoming the Dead Man, he would achieve immortality.

If Shawn was really going to do this, he knew he couldn't afford to make a single mistake.  His form, his timing and his conditioning, all had to be flawless.  There was no margin for error against the Undertaker, especially not with The Streak on the line.  He would need to be more than the Showstopper, more than the Heartbreak Kid.  He would need to be perfect.

And for nearly twenty minutes, he was.  What followed is considered by many fans to be the greatest match of all time.  Every time Taker would get momentum going his way, Michaels would find an escape or a counter.  For every move, he had an answer, keeping the larger and more powerful opponent on the back-foot.  He even managed to kick out of the Undertaker's signature finish, the Tombstone, a feat that stunned everyone in the arena, including Taker himself.  Finally, with the perfect opening, he connected with Sweet Chin Music, the kick that won him championship after championship, that had put away the Nature Boy for good.

He had done it.  He had wrestled the perfect match and overcome the unbeatable adversary.  Michaels covered his opponent, secure in his ultimate victory as the referee counted.....

One.....

.....Two......

.......No.

Triumph and relief gave way to disbelief, despair, and horror as the Undertaker broke the pin at the last split-second, sitting up like Jason Voorhees with death in his eyes.  Michaels had done everything right, he'd been perfect every step of the way....and it still wasn't enough.

His confidence shaken, Michaels' perfect game-plan began to fall apart.  In an act of desperation, he clambered up the corner turnbuckles to deliver a high-risk moonsault (a diving backflip), only for the Undertaker to catch him in position for a second Tombstone.  He'd made one mistake, and it cost him his bid for immortality.  All of his accomplishments in the past year, all of his claims that he had the Dead Man's numbers, all of his pride and his hubris.....all led to him merely being number 17 in the list of names claimed by the Streak.

The Undertaker's mythical status would grow more and more, and Michaels would begin a downward spiral that, in time, would consume him whole.

So begins Act III, picking up nine month or so after The Heartbreak Kid fell to the Dead Man in their now-legendary encounter.  Shawn had won the Tag Team Championships with his former protégé and on-and-off best friend/arch-enemy Triple H, nothing to sneeze at but a poor consolation prize compared to the immortality of ending The Streak-- a sting made that much sharper by the fact that around the same time, the Undertaker had once again captured the World Championship.  As he accepted an end-of-the-year 'Slammy Award' (WWE's parody of the Emmy Awards) for Match of the Year, Michaels paused mid-speech, thinking of how close he had come, how far he had made it only to slip up at the last second, and realized he couldn't move on.  He was the Showstopper, he was Mr. WrestleMania, and by retiring Ric Flair, he now laid claim to being the greatest of all time.  There was no way he could allow all of that to only add up to being 'number 17' on another man's tally.

It was no real surprise to many that Michaels would turn his acceptance speech into a challenge for a rematch.  What did surprise many, however, was when the Undertaker said no, claiming he had nothing to gain from beating Michaels a second time.

Unable to accept rejection, Michaels determined he would force a rematch by winning the Royal Rumble, a massive 30-man battle royale wherein the winner had the right to challenge any champion they chose in the main event of WrestleMania.  The Rumble was also the home of one of HBK's greatest accomplishments: being the first person to ever start the match from the #1 position and win the entire match.  He was a much younger man then, of course, and despite making it all the way to the final four, he was eventually eliminated by the younger and hungrier Dave Bautista.

Seeing his visions of a rematch fade in front of him, his hopes of redemption dashed, Michaels lost it, flipping over furniture at the ringside area, even going so far as to assault the referee who counted his elimination.  Not long after that, he intentionally threw a title defense with Triple H, costing them their Tag Team Championships and dissolving their faction.  As WrestleMania approached, the Undertaker was still at the top of the mountain with no one to challenge him, while Michaels was being sent home in disgrace.

A few weeks before Mania, Taker was forced to defend his Championship in an Elimination Chamber match, a crazy six-man cage match where once again, he obliterated all five of his challengers.  As the Dead Man was in the process of putting away Chris Jericho, his final opponent for the evening, the crowd gasped as Shawn Michaels found a way to enter the Chamber, waylaying Taker with a surprise attack and handing both the victory and the Championship to Jericho.  Now neither man had a title to defend at Mania, and both had felt their reputations tarnished.

Angered by Michaels' obsessive interference, the Undertaker would finally accept his challenge.....but only on one condition.  This time, Michaels would have to put something at stake that was just as precious to him as The Streak: his own career.

Shawn's response was simple: "If I can't beat you....I have no career."

As I had mentioned, many fans believe Undertaker/Shawn Michaels at WrestleMania 25 to be the greatest match of all time.  Respectfully, I have to disagree.

Because as good as that match was, their rematch at WrestleMania 26 was that much better.

The first time these two met, it was a spectacular but more or less impersonal meeting between the two icons.  This time, though, it had become very personal indeed.  Every staggering blow delivered by the Dead Man had a hellish hate behind it.  Every perfect counter and daring high-risk dive by Michaels was fueled by desperation.  For over half an hour, the two broke their bodies and bared their souls, giving and receiving agonizing pain that would have felled lesser men several times over.  For all of the Undertaker's supposedly mystical power, Michaels' refusal to stay down gave him an almost superhuman power of his own, kicking out of the Tombstone yet again, and even surviving a second one that spiked him head-first onto the concrete floor outside of the ring.

While he survived the move, however, the damage was done.  The aura of desperate invincibility began to shake off, each following kickout or escape began to visibly drain him more and more, and he simply had no answer for it.  As the match dragged on, it was apparent to everyone that Michaels had no way to win this match, and was merely prolonging the inevitable.

As Shawn writhed on the mat, struggling to pull himself up, he felt himself being put into the exact same position Ric Flair was in two years before.  This time, though, there would be no grand celebration of his storied career, no misty-eyed recounting of his own stellar accomplishments, no fond farewell to a crowd that worshipped him.  There was no "I'm sorry, I love you" for him.  There was only the end.

He was no longer the Showstopper, or Mr. WrestleMania, or even the Heartbreak Kid.  He, like the battered and weary form of Richard Fleihr, had been stripped of his legend, and all that remained was a tired old man who didn't know how to let go.

Realizing what was to come, Michaels pulled himself to his feet, and in a final act of spiteful defiance, slapped the Dead Man across the face.

The result was about what you'd expect.

With a third and final Tombstone, it was over.  For his hubris, his inability to accept failure, for his unwillingness to accept his own fallibility and mortality, Shawn Michaels had lost everything.  Like a Greek hero or warrior king brought low by the gods, one of the most decorated careers in wrestling ended in disgrace for flying too close to the proverbial sun, for believing they could triumph over death.

Now, I told you all of that so I could ask you this: what part of that story would have been made better by shoehorning jokes into it?

Would Flair's emotional retirement have been improved by adding in cracks about his age?  Would the Undertaker's presence be enhanced by pointing out how fundamentally silly it is that he's a grown man who pretends to have magic powers?  Would Shawn Michaels' downward spiral and destruction have been better if he had instead challenged Taker to a dance-off?

In a story with the central theme being loss and how one deals with it, what exactly is gained by going out of your way to make sure that it's also "fun" and light-hearted?

This sort of story, one that demands the audience get over the initial barrier of the medium's silly premise and invest in the plight of the characters involved, is something I believe that the current glut of superhero movies-- particularly in the Marvel Cinematic Universe-- sorely needs.  Loss and tragedy are every bit as much a part of the human experience as triumph and comedy, but the folks at Marvel can't seem to get over themselves for long enough to explore those avenues of storytelling, at least not to any real degree, lest they come off as "try-hards" or that most cutting of perjoratives, "emo."

As a result, I find it harder and harder to care when they do break from being goofy and too-cool-for-the-room and try to have a 'real' moment.  I didn't care when The Ancient One ate it in Doctor Strange, because they kept retreating back to slapstick routines with the sentient cape or having devout mystic monks jamming to Beyonce.  I didn't care when Yondu went down at the end of Guardians of the Galaxy 2, because they spent the previous 90% of the movie's run-time laughing at jobbers named 'Taser-Face' and dancing around to the Sounds of the Seventies.  And I didn't care about the rather grim final act of Thor: Ragnarok because they spent the first two acts treating all of the characters involved as ineffectual clowns.

I know I'm in the minority here-- Ragnarok, like all the other Marvel movies, received a tidal wave of adulation from critics, most of whom praised the very same goofy schtick that has soured me on the series.  Warner Bros. has apparently jumped on the bandwagon too, as early reviews for Justice League mostly have revolved around the tune of "it's got jokes, so we like it now!"  And as long as this trend keeps Kevin Feige and company rich and popular, there's no incentive to change course.

And I can't help but think this is a huge missed opportunity, because there's a wide range of possibilities that become available for writers, directors, and actors if they're allowed to explore beyond the boundaries of "fun."  I've seen comic books, kaiju movies-- and indeed, pro wrestling matches-- that have captivated me just as thoroughly as any play or opera, because they stop being so obsessed with self-awareness and irony and instead dive head-first into the humanity of the characters and the drama of the story being told.

I've seen what's possible when you allow yourself to Take The Silly Thing Seriously.  And it disappoints me to know we're probably not going to be exploring those possibilities again any time soon.

But hey, who needs drama when you can have dance numbers?

On Guardians, Logan, Isolation, and Other Things

It's an extremely unpleasant experience, sitting in a jam-packed theater and being the only person who isn't laughing.  I know that sounds like the beginning of one of those insufferable Lisa-centered episodes of The Simpsons where she spends most of the show going "oh, what a curse it is to be so much better than everyone else," but it's not hard to feel cut off from your fellow moviegoers when everyone is having a grand old time and you're left trying to figure out why you're not.  Are you being contrarian for its own sake?  Are you letting your biases get the better of your enjoyment?  Are you asking for something the filmmakers aren't giving you?  If so, why are you the only one asking for it?  Are your expectations unreasonable?  Or do you just have bad taste?

These are the uncomfortable and unpleasant questions I found myself asking, erm....myself, after Guardians of the Galaxy, Vol. 2.

Yo Dawg I heard you like bright colors, so we put bright colors IN your bright colors.... 

Now, before I get rolling, I did not hate Guardians 2, as such.  I didn't leave the movie feeling angry or upset, I didn't feel like the people who made the movie should be hounded and disgraced for not meeting my standards, I didn't think the legacy of the characters or the brand was tarnished by the latest brick in the Big Red Wall that is the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

More than anything, what I felt was tired.  Not tired like I'd been through a long and difficult journey, or tired like I'd put up with a particularly taxing day at work.  Tired like a grown-up who's heard a kid tell the same knock-knock joke twenty times in a row.  Tired like someone whose friend won't stop showing them pictures of their new baby and has to keep pretending to find it adorable.  Tired like a gamer who's explored every dungeon in the game but keeps grinding so their character can level up some more.

There are people who call this "superhero fatigue," blaming the seemingly unending glut of cape-and-tights movies for diminishing returns with each outing.  Personally, I think I need to specify and call the feeling what it really is: Marvel fatigue.

In a vacuum, Guardians 2 is solid enough.  I wouldn't call it great-- or even particularly good if we're not grading superhero flicks by a curve-- but it hits a lot of the right marks.  Kurt Russell positively steals the show whenever he's on screen, even if his spaceship looks like a giant flying Glade Plug-In.  Michael Rooker's character Yondu has easily the best character arc in the movie, and honestly one of the better arcs in all of Marvel.  And while I didn't buy Zoe Saldana's Gamorra as a love interest for the lead ("Why does she like him?  Because he won't stop hitting on her"), I did care a lot more about her interactions with her sister/arch-rival Nebula, particularly in the second and third acts.

And hell, it avoids a lot of the pitfalls that have become increasingly common complaints about the Marvel movies.  The color scheme no longer looks like a flat, empty parking lot (though I'd say the undisciplined rainbow-vomit of super-saturated colors is an over-correction).  There are no obnoxious fake-out deaths to tug at the audience's heartstrings only to renege on having actual consequences.  The main antagonist has a clear motivation and reasons for doing what he does other than being a moustache-twirling bad guy for its own sake.  And most importantly of all, it's its own self-contained story, rather than an elaborate setup for the next one.

If there's one big thing that I really, truly disliked about Guardians 2, it's the one thing that Marvel has been banking on for so long: the 'humor.'  After the backlash DC's Man of Steel and later Batman v Superman received, Marvel has leaned harder and harder on comedy to make sure they're not seen as gloomy try-hards like their competitors.  It's seeped into virtually every conversation, every scene, every sequence, to the point where it's impossible for me to engage with the movie.  They continually undercut moments that are supposed to be impressive and 'epic' by punctuating them with wacky clown slapstick, they undermine lines that are meant to be full of gravitas and importance by following them up with Whedonesque awkward-mumble-jokes, they take what could be exciting battles and chase sequences and use them as backdrops for bickering or dance numbers.  I get that these are action-comedies above all else, but when the dramatic and emotional moments finally come in the third act, I can't bring myself to get invested because they look and sound exactly the same as the scenes the rest of the movie told me not to take seriously.

Oh, and I may be alone in this, but I loathed Baby Groot and how hard this movie leaned on him.  You remember America's Funniest Home Videos?  And how every other week, all the genuinely funny and clever videos would lose to a video of a baby doing something 'cute,' and how irritating that was?  That is Baby Groot to me.  Every time he's on screen, all I can think of is the guy who put all the time and effort into creating something to make people laugh, only for the ten-thousand-dollar prize to go to some jerk who got his brat to sing along to "Great Balls of Fire."

You go to hell, Bob Saget.  Straight to hell.

In a vacuum, I'd say the 80-ish% positive ratings on Rotten Tomatoes aren't off-base.  The critical response hasn't been overwhelming praise like it was for the first Guardians, but a tepid endorsement is still technically an endorsement.  It's nothing you'll remember, but you'll have a decent time while you're there.  It's not great, but it's good enough.

The problem is that it doesn't exist in a vacuum.  We've been getting a minimum of two superhero movies a year for nearly a decade now.  We've seen enough Marvel movies at this point that we know how they work and what to expect.  And we've seen the competitors step up their game, learning from past failures to become bigger and badder contenders for the throne.  And as far as I'm concerned, good enough isn't good enough anymore.

Sure, DC is fighting an uphill battle after the divisive reception of Man of Steel and the critical lynchings it received for BvS and Suicide Squad.  But even with an extremely hostile press and a significant portion of the comic fandom actively rooting for them to fail, those three movies still cracked two billion dollars (something it took Marvel five movies to do).  And what's more, going by the trailers for the upcoming Wonder Woman and Justice League, the execs and creative teams at WB have listened to the response and have been taking steps to win back an estranged audience (notice how much of the Justice League trailer was focused on going "look everyone, we've got jokes now!").  They may not succeed, but if they're going to, this year is their best chance at it.

And over at Twentieth Century Fox, the long-floundering X-Men franchise has finally found its footing.  Last year's Deadpool was a smash hit, and it opened the door for them to take on riskier, more mature projects that subvert expectations, challenge their audiences, and push against the self-imposed confines of the superhero genre as just light, fluffy escapism.  One of those is the highly-acclaimed FX series Legion, which has delivered some of the darkest and most engaging takes on power and the consequences of heroism that I've seen in years.

The other, of course, is Logan.

Oh, you like hit pop songs in your superhero movie trailer?  How about I use Johnny Cash's cover of "Hurt," the saddest goddamn song ever?

Logan was more than just Hugh Jackman saying goodbye to a role he'd been playing since 1999.  It was a reminder that superheroes are supposed to mean more than just something to laugh and clap at and dress up as for Halloween.  It was a bleak, unflinching, and unapologetic commentary on where we are as a society and where we might end up if we stop seeing other people as people.  It was a heartbreaking character study of a man who had fought too long and lost too much, who'd been surrounded by death for so long that he'd forgotten what it was to have a life, a man of war and his final search for peace.

It was a masterpiece of the genre, and more than that, it was a genuinely great movie.  There was no need to make excuses for it, no need to say "well, it's just a silly superhero flick, what do you expect?"  It was a shining testament to what happens when you put in the effort and actually give a damn about what you're doing.

On top of that, it gave audiences something that neither the Marvel or DC cinematic universes can give them: an ending.  A meaningful, emotional, and important final chapter to a story we'd followed through its highs and its lows.  Meanwhile, Marvel has long-term plans to keep their movie-verse going long after the climactic Infinity War they've been teasing since the first Avengers, and while many things at DC seem up-in-the-air, they don't have any intention of closing up shop any time soon.  Hell, even after splitting custody of Spider-Man with Marvel, Sony still plans on making a 'universe' out of Spidey's more notable villains like Venom and Black Cat.  We can argue and bicker all day about the actual quality of these movies, but all three of these big studios all plan on milking their respective cash-cows until they run dry.  Logan, on the other hand, chose to close the book on Wolverine for good, and leave the audience sad but ultimately satisfied.

Even with the critical and commercial success of Logan and the apparent course-corrections at DC, Marvel Studios remain the king of the mountain.  They've got the pedigree, they've got the formula that's led to one home-run after another, and they've got the bountiful resources of Disney at their back.  As much of an unrepentant DC fanboy as I am, I'll be the first to admit that nobody thinks of them first when they think of superhero movies.  Marvel at this point has become as synonymous with comic books and their film adaptations as Coca-Cola is to soda, as Starbucks is to coffee, as McDonald's is to fast-food.  They are the undisputed top brand, come rain or shine.

And it makes it that much more disappointing that while their competitors are taking big steps forward, they choose to jog in place.

Which brings me back to Guardians of the Galaxy, vol. 2.  It's a competent and inoffensive family-friendly action-comedy, made by a studio that has dominated an entire genre of entertainment by cranking out an endless stream of competent and inoffensive family-friendly action-comedies.  It's not bad, but it doesn't make any effort to be any better than the one before that, and the reason that it doesn't is because it doesn't have to.  It's a Marvel movie, and therefore it will make its weight in gold and everyone will love it, just long enough for people to have forgotten it completely by the time the next one comes around.

I haven't forgotten, though, and that's the problem.  I haven't forgotten the last fifteen competent and inoffensive action-comedies, all made to look and sound and feel the same way, with characters that all act the same way, plots that all unfold the same way, and jokes that are all told the same way.  I haven't forgotten all the people who have chided me for wanting more, saying "relax, they're just silly stories about guys in capes, they're not supposed to be taken seriously," before going back to their deadly-serious TV shows about zombies and dragons and robots that dress up like cowboys.  I haven't forgotten the critics who showered the last movie with unabashed praise and jubilation, just like they did with the one before that, and the one before that, and the one before that.  I haven't forgotten the other filmmakers out there who have tried to push superhero mythology outside the looming shadow of the Big Red Wall, even when they're ridiculed and dragged through the mud and kicked while they're down because of it.  I haven't forgotten how good these films can be when they're not produced on an assembly line.

And after today, I won't have forgotten what it feels like to be the one person in a crowded theater that isn't laughing, wondering if I'm the one who has a problem.

On Red Capes, Rebel Flags, and Security Blankets

So.........first of all, sorry for the lack of activity.  This blog was originally meant to stay up-to-date on all things in the superhero genre, on the big and small screens and in print.  However, over the last six months I've posted precisely one article, not including this one, and have reserved most of my everyday musings and commentary for my Tumblr page (which you can of course read and follow here), and even then it's mostly just reblogging what other people wrote.  A lot of that is due to life getting in the way, a lot of that was me laying low after some fairly nasty exchanges caused me to leave a fan community I'd been part of for years......but for the most part, it was because I got lazy and kept putting off writing until the subject I was writing about was no longer relevant.

But I'd like to make a resolution now that I'm going to do my damnedest to be more active and make my opinions heard moving forward here at the Red Cape Diaries (although maybe I should call it the Red Cape Bi-Annual?).  And to that end, now that all of the studios have fired off their guns, I'd like to discuss something important in this year in Capes.

2016, perhaps more than any other year, has been incredibly divisive when it comes to the superhero fandom.  There's of course the rivalry between the Marvel and DC Cinematic Universes, but that's nothing new; Marvel vs. DC is perhaps second only to Star Trek vs. Star Wars in terms of pointless franchise loyalty.  More importantly, I feel like there's a growing conflict in the fandom between two different philosophies when it comes to approaching heroes: those who would wear the Cape as a Security Blanket, and those who would wear it as a Rebel Flag.

NOTE: NOT THIS ONE.

Lemme 'splain.

First and foremost, when I'm talking about the 'Rebel Flag' camp I'm about to describe, I'm not suggesting that they subscribe to the kind of views as those who fly Confederate flags, or that the kind of social, racial, political, etc. connotations that come with it should be associated with them in any way.  I try to go out of my way not to mix my politics with my hobbies, and I especially don't care to get into the myriad of increasingly meaningless 'isms' and 'phobias' that get thrown around when identity politics come up.  People in the Rebel Flag camp of the fandom can come from the far Left just as easily as they come from the far Right, with just as many Libertarians and Marxists and whatever-elses in between, so again, I am not attempting to claim these people have the same worldview.

I am, however, saying that just like people who fly that flag in the face of demands that it be taken down, there is a growing and increasingly vocal camp within the superhero community that expresses their opinions as a deliberate gesture of defiance.  The Rebel Flag has a lot of connotations to it, and depending on where you live and how you see the world, those connotations may be positive or extremely negative.  Some see it as an expression of populist pride, a reinforcement of regional or community tradition openly opposed to the sneering cosmopolitan elite.  Others see it as a symbol of hatred and oppression, a backwards and bigoted recall to dark and shameful chapters of our history.  Regardless of how you feel about it, the fact is that (in America, at least) it's next to impossible to look at the Rebel Flag and not feel something.  It's intentionally provocative, and those who fly it do so to stick up a middle finger to people who want to do away with it.

In much the same way, 2016 has seen a rise of people in the superhero community who have planted a flag in direct opposition to the popular narrative, regardless of who they offend or what names people call them.  The largest of these, of course, is the fanbase of the DC Extended Universe.  According to the critics and to popular opinion, Batman v Superman and Suicide Squad were atrocities to be viewed with the same level of revulsion and anger as war crimes.  Zack Snyder and David Ayer were repeatedly dragged through the mud, all but burned in effigy.  And those who dared claim that they liked the movies?  Oh, well they're just idiots who don't know what they're talking about.  They're just fooling themselves into thinking they liked it.  They're not real fans, like me.

And in the months since then, after onslaughts of negativity, of being bashed and ridiculed and mocked and dismissed, has the DCEU fanbase gone away?  Far from it.  If anything, the fanbase has grown steadily larger and louder.  Some, like Dr. Awkward from the excellent MOSAIC podcast (whom I've name-dropped before and whom you can listen to right here) are refreshingly positive and relish in the opportunity to dive deep into the films, even when they're not entirely on board with the choices made.  Some, like CinemaWins (seriously, just watch it) make it their calling card to defend films they genuinely think are wrongly maligned.  And some, myself very much included, chose to rally not just in favor of entertainment they enjoy, but in rejection of an increasingly bland and homogeneous stream of toothless, low-stakes, Easy Mode brand advertisements that the popular opinion touts as "superheroes done right."

Being in the Rebel Flag camp doesn't necessarily mean you're a DCEU fan-- there are plenty whom I'd classify here who outright hated the movies.  And that's okay; it'd be a damn boring world if we all liked and disliked the same stuff.  Hell, I wasn't all that big on Suicide Squad myself, though there was enough of it I liked that I wouldn't mind seeing more.  There are other Rebel Flag factions, who openly declare their enjoyment or disdain for certain books or characters or writers in defiance of trends or common belief.  Not all of them are spoiling for a fight, but they don't let the jeers and the snark and naysaying get to them.  They know that saying they like this movie or that comic is putting a target on themselves, they know their opinion is going to draw conflict, and they proceed anyway.  They know what they like, and they don't particularly give a damn what anyone else has to say about it.

And then.....there's the other camp.

In a lot of the conversations I've had with fellow fans, there seems to be a firmly-held and growing sentiment that superhero stories shouldn't just entertain, they have to make you feel good.  And while the inspirational aspects of these characters is what draws most of us to them, far more important, apparently, is the notion that there has to be some undercurrent of childlike joy, of playfulness and fun-- they're not just heroic, they're the people you wish you could be....and they're also your friends, here to bring some sunshine into your day!

And there's nothing wrong with wanting fun and positivity in your entertainment.  In a world that seems increasingly dark and frightening with every year, it's only natural to want to be able to take in some escapism that lets you laugh and smile for a bit.  For a very long time, I railed against the grim-dark cynicism that was pervasive in the wake of the Dark Knight movies, in favor of the technicolor insanity of the Silver Age.  And while my tastes have changed over time, I won't deny there's a definite allure to wanting to wrap yourself up in a big warm Security Blanket and feel like nothing can touch you.

When something threatens that safety and security, though?  The conversation turns ugly, and fast.  If you so much as suggest that you like or even love a character, but then don't treat them like a Fabergé Egg that shatters in a stiff breeze, then you've betrayed that character.  You don't understaaand them; hell, you probably secretly hate them and just pretend to like them so you can get in with us real fans.  You don't love them, not like I do.  The comforting warm-fuzzies of that Security Blanket mentality are addictive, and those who bring something to the table that threatens that safety can't be countenanced, because if they remain, you can't get your fix of feeling safe.

The sharp and loud negative reaction to anything that ventures outside of the comforting warmth of the Security Blanket has been noticed by the studios, and frankly I'm worried about their response.  Marvel was so quick to pounce on the backlash against Man of Steel that they ended up making Age of Ultron too safe and eager-to-please to be anything more than a half-remembered footnote.  DC recoiled from the slings and arrows launched at Batman v Superman so much that they chopped up Suicide Squad to the film's severe detriment.  The first footage we saw of Justice League continually undercut every build in tension with a joke to assuage the masses that they wouldn't dare make the mistake of taking their subject matter too seriously again.  And Doctor Strange, Marvel's biggest chance at making a challenging and mind-bending cinematic experience, amounted to Iron Man but with Magic instead of Robots.  That retreating back into the comfort zone underneath the Security Blanket, that need to please and pander for fear of rejection, is coming at the expense of the created work itself.

Moreover, as bad as it can be for the product we enjoy, it can be equally bad for the community itself.  I've seen a fair share of fandom bubbles, be they forums or Facebook groups or subreddits, who let a comforting consensus sour into groupthink, and from there into a dogma that spurns the outsider and curses the heretic.  Those who yearn for the comfort of the Security Blanket can be just as much of an unwelcoming presence, even just as much of a hostile bully, as those who provoke and attack just for the sheer love of trolling.  And inevitably, as these groups shut themselves off and shut others out, they grow smaller and inevitably peeter out altogether.

Now, this isn't to say that everyone needs to draw a line in the sand and yell "come at me, bro" every time there's a disagreement.  While I do think the occasional provocateur and enfant terrible is bracing and ultimately necessary to build up the emotional toughness needed to get through life, provocation and conflict for its own sake is more often just as useless as hiding under the covers when it arises.  At the end of the day, we're all fans of the same sort of stuff, even if the specifics aren't the same or we come at it from different approaches, so it's best to bear that in mind when a difference of opinion rears its head.  That said, if someone does make it personal or claim that your enjoyment of something outside of their comfort zone makes you less of a fan, don't hesitate to invite them to fuck themselves.

We may argue and bicker over whether Batman should have killed those guys who were trying to burn a harmless old lady to death with a flamethrower, or whether Superman should smile and joke and tell you to stay in school while fending off the apocalypse, but I don't think that Superman puts on his Cape so he can hide under it.

I don't think that Batman puts on his Cape so he can feel warm and fuzzy and ignore larger problems.

I don't think Doctor Strange puts on his Cape to stay within the boundaries of what other people are comfortable with.

And maybe you don't need a Rebel Flag to wave around.....but I sure as hell don't think you need that Security Blanket.

On Civil War, Dawn of Justice, Foamy Beverages, and a Dash of Ayn Rand

So.  First off, hello and welcome to the inaugural entry into the Red Cape Diaries, which I'm fairly certain will be the only place on the entirety of the internet where you can read an overweight white guy's thoughts on superhero culture.....I think.  I'm Andy C., and I plan on using this little corner of cyberspace (does anyone still call it that, or was that just a 90s thing?) to provide reviews, character/film studies, fan theories, pitches for movie/gaming/comic concepts, and whatever other relevant thoughts spring to mind.  It should be fun, at least for me.

Anyway, pleasantries aside, let's get down to business with the first topic at hand.

It's been a banner year for "superheroes fight each other and then team up later" stories, with both Marvel and DC bringing their guns to bear, and everyone and their grandmother has been posting reactions, reviews, comparisons and contrasts, saying who's better and who should just give up and commit seppuku right now to restore their tarnished honor, and so on and so forth.

About six weeks ago, DC swung for the fences with Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, and the general response has been....not kind.  Critics tore the movie apart, and while the majority of audience reviews were positive, said majority was hardly an overwhelming one.  While the film had an absolutely monstrous opening weekend and performed well enough to clear $850 million, it still fell short of the hard-sought billion-dollar mark that studios wanted.  The popular narrative now is that BvS is a failure, and that Warner Bros' moves since then--including expensive re-shoots for the upcoming Suicide Squad, the director for The Flash leaving, and Ben Affleck being made executive producer for Justice League-- are all claimed to be decisions driven by panic in the face of a perceived disaster.

Then, on the other side of the fence, we've got Captain America: Civil War.

The thirteenth entry into the Marvel Cinematic Universe, Civil War has been basking in glowing reviews weeks before the movie was even released.  Obviously its box office numbers haven't come in yet since it's still opening weekend, but it looks on course to breeze right past BvS with contemptuous ease and join Iron Man 3 and the first two Avengers movies in the Billion Dollar Club.  The overwhelming popular narrative is that it succeeded on every facet in which BvS failed, and the Marvel juggernaut (the metaphorical term, not the X-men villain) will continue to trample all competition as the series looks to move into 'Phase 4,' with Doctor Strange coming out later this year to keep the self-perpetuating hype machine going.


So then, it's an open-and-shut case, isn't it?  Everyone loves Civil War and hates BvS, so....that's all there is to it, right?


Well, I don't necessarily think so.  In fact, I think the fallout from these two movies has made the competition between the Marvel and DC universes far more interesting, and that a long view will tell a very different tale than the one that's being told now.  And I get this suspicion thanks to some beverages I recently had and a book I read once.

For the last eight years, Marvel and their tyrannical overlords at Disney have been making cinematic soda pop.  It's bubbly, it's sweet with just a little acidic bite, it gives you a little extra energy, and it's addictive as all hell.  It's not a particularly memorable drink, but that ultimately works in its favor, since you can have one after another without ever really getting tired of it.

Care for a refill?  How about refill after refill for the next decade?

So with everyone conditioned to think of Marvel as the Coca-Cola of superhero movies, it would make perfect sense to expect DC to come out as Pepsi, right?  That's how these things work: you have two slightly different flavors of basically the same thing, and then everyone fights forever over which one is better.

Zack Snyder, the folks at DC, and their own tyrannical overlords at WB, however, eschewed soda altogether and have instead been offering glasses of really stout porter.

At this time of day?

You can't drink a porter the way you drink a soda.  It's dark, and it's bitter, and there are a lot of little flavors that you can only parse out if you savor it, and even then it takes a good amount of effort to acquire a taste for it.  It's very easy for people who aren't big beer drinkers to look at a glass of nearly flat-black beverage and decide they're not going to enjoy it, or spit the drink out after the first sip of a flavor they don't like and never try it again.  And if you are a big beer drinker, there's the chance that your own personal tastes are more towards a blonde ale or a Pilsner.

People who particularly like really dark beer aren't commonplace (the ten most popular beers in the world are almost exclusively light), but those who do are generally very enthusiastic about their beverage of choice.  Meanwhile, basically everyone in the world drinks Coca-Cola, but the people who are die-hard Coke fans are generally considered oddballs, since most people will be perfectly fine drinking Pepsi instead.

This is already being reflected in the respective fanbases of the Marvel and DC movie franchises, at least as far as I've seen.  While the internet is overflowing with praise for Civil War and the dozen other films that preceded it, I've noticed that the minority coming out in support of the DCEU have generally been far more passionate about their films of choice, going into a far greater depth in analyzing underlying themes and character motivations and creative decisions on the part of the filmmakers (in that regard, I cannot endorse the MOSAIC blog highly enough, or the Tumblr user pulpklatura who has written an excellent analysis on BvS as a modern Revenge Tragedy).  Maybe not as many people like the DC films as the throngs who put money into Marvel's coffers, but those who do tend to appreciate said films far more, and that alone may get others to give the films another chance over time.

Speaking for myself, I had to watch Batman v Superman three times before I felt I really had a full appreciation of the movie.  Conversely, I saw Civil War once, and while I did enjoy it very much (particularly Tom Holland's debut as the new Spider-Man), I honestly don't think I would be too disappointed if I never saw it again.  Then again, I liked Prometheus more than I liked The Force Awakens, so what the hell do I know.

I think the clash between the MCU and DCEU goes further than merely a difference in flavors, but rather a conflict of ideologies in terms of the creative process.  Zack Snyder, the director of DC's flagship titles and currently in the running for Most Hated Man in America Not Named Donald Trump, has made no secret that one of his dream projects is to do an adaptation of Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead, and I think it's become more and more appropriate by the day, because for the last six weeks (and really the last three years since Man of Steel), he's been living it.

Surely bringing up Ayn Rand on the internet will spark only civilized and good-natured discourse.

The Fountainhead is a novel about an architect named Howard Roark, a promising but arrogant creator whose designs fly in the face of a status quo he views as outdated and mundane.  Roark absolutely refuses to compromise his ideals or his creative vision, and as a result he is met at every turn with derision from critics, denied opportunities from more powerful men, and eventually loses everything he worked to achieve.  He falls in with a publisher who has lost his idealism and gets by on pandering to the lowest common denominator, and when things go south for Roark again, throws Roark under the bus.  In time, however, the publisher comes around and defends Roark one last time, and the book ends with the protagonist being commissioned for one last building, a towering monument that will stand the test of time.

It's also the story of one of Roark's classmates, Peter Keating, who trades on being a people-pleaser.  His designs are wildly popular and met with critical acclaim, even if they're rather uninspired and samey, because they fall in line with that people want.  He rises up the corporate ladder quickly and amasses a fortune, but eventually falls from grace when the trends change and his work is no longer in demand.  While he is not the villain of the piece, Keating is viewed with a degree of contempt, as he is a man of constant compromise, bending and scraping for the approval of his peers, and while he is liked for a time, he is ultimately abandoned and forgotten.

Now, we can spend days going back and forth over the merits and failings of Objectivism as a philosophy--or of Rand herself, for that matter-- but that's not the point of this blog, or why I'm bringing it up now.  I'm bringing it up because I think it raises a very interesting question when looking at the two different approaches these studios are taking towards making movies about people in tights: is it better for you, as a creator, to give the people what they want, or to give the people what you want?

For all of the obscene amounts of money they make and the unbroken string of universally praised hits, the Marvel movies do have a rather unsettling feel of uniformity to them.  There have been numerous reports about how the studio can be creatively stifling, and has driven off brilliant directors like Edgar Wright and Patty Jenkins (who will now be directing Wonder Woman over at DC).  While most people involved have had little but kind words to say about their experiences, I do question the point in making films directed by Jon Favreau, Kenneth Branagh, James Gunn, and Joss Whedon, and have them all look and sound and feel nearly identical to each other.

On the other hand, for the two films that comprise the DCEU at the moment, Zack Snyder has been given a tremendous amount of creative control, and while many aren't particularly happy with that fact, Man of Steel and BvS are undeniably his inside and out.  Suicide Squad will be the first of the franchise with another director at the helm, and David Ayer's vision of the seedier side of the superhero world looks starkly different, with its characters all in plainclothes and covered in tattoos, and trailers blasting irreverent party-rock hit "Ballroom Blitz" instead of BvS's bombastic orchestra.  I imagine we'll see what Jenkins' Wonder Woman looks like before too long (I expect a teaser at least at Comic-Con), but so far, for good and for ill, DC seems more confident in the individual visions of the people at the helm.

Of course, with the mountain of negative feedback in BvS's wake, it remains to be seen if WB will keep that level of confidence in its creators.  As mentioned at the beginning of this increasingly ungainly post, Snyder's unorthodox vision of the DC universe and his unapologetic attitude towards critics is reportedly landing him in hot water with the higher-ups, and many believe that Affleck being promoted is a way to rein him in among all the calls for his public crucifixion.  So, much like the fictional Howard Roark, Snyder's unwillingness to compromise could cost him everything he wants to achieve.

The fact that Marvel will continue to make money and be loved by all is as predictable as the sunrise at this point.  If the last twelve movies were any indication, Civil War will retain a high-80-mid-90% critical rating on Rotten Tomatoes, and will make well over a billion dollars, one dollar for every smug comment about how "this is the movie BvS should have been!," and then, just like Iron Man 3 and Age of Ultron and Thor: the Dark World....it will be completely forgotten before the end of the year.

That, I think, is why the Marvel/DC conflict is nowhere near the one-sided trouncing that people assume it is after glancing at Rotten Tomatoes.  Even if the DC movies tank and Snyder is run out of town by an angry torch-wielding mob, he's still made films that a passionate (and growing) community of fans have spent countless hours delving into, finding far richer treasures beneath the surface.  Meanwhile, the Marvel movies are almost entirely surface, with very little reason to revisit any individual film after its contribution to the nebulous whole is done.  They'll keep refilling your soda, but little by little, I think we'll see more people start to gain a taste for that glass of porter.

To put it another way, Peter Keating was popular.  Howard Roark, though, was remembered.


(Also, in the novel Roark was a rapist and Keating was a murderer, but that's not particularly relevant to the allegory I'm making)