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?
