The “rules of reality”?*** What do you even mean by that?
First: I think this might be an instance in which our lack of comic book knowledge comes into play. I think in fact that rules of reality do exist – rules according to the worlds created in these comic books. But for us lay people, I think it’s safe to say: Superman abides by a set of fast, immutable rules – à la Kryptonite kills. They’re not making this shit up willy-nilly: The effective comic book movies – just like all other effective films – establish the rules of their universe early and stick to ‘em.
Moving on:
While I get a kick out of your impressive distillation of X2, what you seem to think is a whole lot of gobbledygook reads – and more importantly plays – like a riproaring actioner to me: a riproaring actioner with very significant detours into source myth, tragic love, government-sanctioned racism, gay allegory, and the unholy – but complex and identifiable – vengeance sought by those powerfully, systemically wronged.
You know, if I took the time to similarly detail all the ins and outs and improbabilities of any Indiana Jones flick (“Eat your burning heart!”***), it, too, would sound like so much gobbledygook – which is in no way a diss on Indiana Jones. I loved him just as much as you (or at least the first three outings with him – missed the last one yet, and it’s not on the to-do list), and I’m not sure I see such a clear delineation between Indy and our comic book friends.
Where’s the disconnect for you? Is it the tights? The occasional horns sprouted?
Those are just the trappings. They’re like a uniform. I know for a fact you fell young and you fell hard for Indy. That guy’s got a fedora. No Spidey powers, but a fedora and a bullwhip. Are they really so very different? (Well, Indiana has a lot more luck with the ladies.) Or Jason Bourne. Is he really so far removed from Bruce Wayne? They’re both regular guys with really special talents, pretty serious chips on their shoulders, who decide to take matters into their own hands. It’s just that one of ‘em wears a codpiece while he’s doing it.
I’m just saying, it feels like a pretty arbitrary line-drawing in the sand – crying foul for one franchise’s flights of fancy and nifty gadgetry, while applauding another one’s.
***If the fashioning of some facsimile of “reality” or “real-life” is the main thing you’re looking for in a movie, then, tiger, you’re in the wrong line of work.
You threw my beloved screwballs in my face earlier, so I’m throwing ‘em right back at you. Do I love Bringing Up Baby for its close hewing to “reality” – a reality in which leopards cozy up to Victrolas and love affairs sprout overnight despite Girl’s quick ruination of Boy’s marriage and career?
Nope. I love it because Cary Grant playing a prig is a gas, because Katharine Hepburn is never so lovely as when she’s all loosey-goose, and because their exposed-underpants synchronized dance is one of the great pleasures I’ve known as a movie lover.
***I probably shouldn’t have referenced (the unfairly maligned) Temple of Doom, so don’t go pouncing on that to negate my argument. Substitute “burning heart” with face-melting spirits unleashed from the ark of the covenant (yeowzers!) or that doofy near-dead knight protecting the humble carpenter’s cup. Neither has any bearing on “reality” as we know it. And goodness knows I’m glad for that.
This article appears in July 4 • 2008.
