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.