Chris At The Pictures

Wonder’s the word, alright. Patty Jenkins brings a pop-culture icon to the screen in grin-broadening fashion with this electrifying and earnest superhero film that aims to expand the DC cinematic universe. Thankfully, Wonder Woman’s part in building the latter is small, taking a step away from the stodgy forward-planning of films past to tell a singular, self-contained story (imagine that!). Its larger and more important contribution to the world is to finally deliver a female-led, female-directed megabudget film that puts to rest both the nightmare of Catwoman or Elektra, and the pig-headed mindset that audiences don’t want to see films made by, for, and starring women.

Gal Gadot (returning from her brief appearance in Batman V Superman) plays our heroine, Diana, an Amazonian warrior of the all-female utopia, Themyscira. Their peace is shattered when pilot Steve Trevor (Chris Pine) takes a tailspin into their paradise, explaining that the wider world is engulfed in the Great War. Believing the God Aires has poisoned the minds of humanity into committing such atrocities, Diana decides to leave her home, despite the express wishes of her mother, Hippolyta (a fiercely tiaraed Connie Nielsen). Nevertheless, she persists, taking command of her people’s most powerful weapons and following Steve back to the pointedly termed “world of men”.

Her values are soon challenged by the prejudices and practices of 20^th century London, as well as the sinister plotting of German General Ludendorff (Danny Huston, wearing his best sneer) and his scientist accomplice, Dr. Maru (Elena Anaya). They plan to unleash a new form of gas to scupper the oncoming armistice, so – after some smartly funny fish-out-of-water escapades in London – Diana, Steve and his hand-picked gang set off to the Western front. At this point, the film threatens to stick Diana in the backseat while Steve and the trio (engagingly played by Ewen Bremner, Eugene Brave Rock and Saïd Taghmaoui) momentarily take centre stage. This is one of few points where the pace limps somewhat, but how refreshing that it’s in service of character building rather than crash-bang-wallop.

Other pitfalls (due to genre and period) can’t quite be avoided. The special effects occasionally overwhelm and comparisons to Captain America: The First Avenger are in abundance, but they’re momentary setbacks that can’t harm the film’s feminist message. No matter how broad the strokes, the statement feels genuine and direct, and the moment when Diana climbs into No Man’s Land is unspeakably powerful. It’s a set piece that feels long overdue, delivering on a spectacular and emotional level that no amount of trailer footage can spoil. If Gadot batting away bullets can bring a tear to my eye, I can only imagine what it’ll mean to an entire generation of young girls.

Jenkins proves a confident action director in these sparse but thrilling sequences of derring-do, shedding the gawping male gaze and murky composition of her contemporaries. Cinematographer Matthew Jensen streamlines the Snyder aesthetic into something appropriate (it’s several shades brighter, but doesn’t let up on the speed-ramps and slow-mo), and composer Rupert Gregson-Williams proves me right about that signature guitar riff: it's a killer cue, and works incredibly well when embraced by a full score.

Tom Holkenborg’s leitmotif is the only hanger-on from the wider cinematic universe: the film spends less than a minute tying itself to the DC web, managing subplots you can count on one hand and connect without the assistance of Wikipedia. Given time to develop a single central character as opposed to the lead, their partner, their nemeses and – lest we forget – Granny’s Peach Tea, Wonder Woman builds to a satisfying series of emotional payoffs that are all to do with rooting for real heroes, not a brooding bulk or snarky pretty boy (Pine easily deflects any Kirk comparisons).

For Diana is not one of the boys, nor is she a damsel. Her quest for peace is taken utterly on her own terms and speaks to something often spoken but rarely felt in this genre: optimism. Not the staunchly-defended principles of Captain America or Batman’s misguided faith in his corrupt city, but a genuine belief that people are innately good, that lives are worth saving for more than the purposes of reparation or showboating. Batman V Superman failed to deliver on the promise of Clark’s smile at the end of Man of Steel, but Wonder Woman takes up the charge with conviction. When tragedy strikes, Diana is visibly shaken. When her powers manifest, she learns to command them without aid or exposition. When faced with the awful truth of humanity, she lassos the last vestige of goodness available and digs in her heels.

This refusal to go all self-referential or edgy seemed to draw out a smattering of sighs and snickers from the audience, but none from me. The unabashed display of hope and courage brought me back to watching my Dad’s DVD of Superman: The Movie as a child, and Gal Gadot’s performance succeeds entirely on her ability to convey that yearning, that desperation, even, to do the right thing. I don’t believe this to be some overcooked attempt on the behalf of Jenkins, Snyder and co. to counteract criticisms of the series’ dire grittiness, but because the movie honestly means to be so. It left me beaming, occasionally through watery eyes, but never through derision. My prayer that the DCEU (or, Goddess forbid, the genre as a whole) learns the right lesson from Wonder Woman may go unanswered, but it’s one as genuine as Diana’s desire for justice. I’m with her.

Hugh Jackman lays claim to the Wolverine character once and for all in this dark and edgy superhero spin-off. In a future where the other X-Men have long-since disappeared, Logan/Wolverine lives as a chauffeur across the Mexican border by night and cares for the mentally-damaged Charles Xavier (Patrick Stewart) by day. Their isolated existence is shattered when a desperate woman entrusts Logan with helping a young girl, Laura (newcomer Dafne Keen) escape sinister forces. What follows is less a special effects blockbuster than a gritty, bloody road movie, as the increasingly fraught Wolverine is forced to face uncomfortable truths about his legacy.

Most of us take Hugh Jackman’s most famous role for granted, but his six foot-plus, ever-vested physique and inescapable charisma have been a constant sticking point for fans of the original comic version: a stocky, lycra-suited potty-mouth. Logan is the first film to really take these differences into account, and even make amends: whilst Wolverine vehemently denies any truth to be found in Laura’s collection of X-Men comics, there’s easily enough money in his swear box to fix several church roofs. It helps that Jackman’s own dedication to portraying the character has never once wavered, and continues to enthral. As sad at it is to see him finally let Logan go, it’s a fantastically well-pitched goodbye.

In the aftermath of Deadpool, the “we need more R-rated superhero movies” declaration has been bandied about a lot with very little thought, but director James Mangold (paying reparations for his comparatively tame and uninteresting The Wolverine) actually uses it appropriately. The first spoken word of the film is a sharply-uttered f-bomb; a display of aged irritation, not an immature opportunity to curse. A 15 certificate does allow the film to breathe with the foulest of mouths, but also to consider themes of aging and death without alienating a younger audience. It’s difficult to imagine subtle details such as Wolverine’s arthritic claws, limp, permanent scars and dusty grey hair making it into the final cut of a glossy Bryan Singer or Matthew Vaughn production.

Oh, and it’s very, very violent. Wolvie’s rages have been the bloodiest staple of the franchise from the beginning, but here they finally mean something again. Every chest cavity ruptured, every decapitation, every maimed limb may as well add five years to Logan’s already extended life-span. For the first time, you look past the physical regeneration to the mental degradation. George Stevens’ Shane is unsubtly alluded to throughout – “There’s no living with the killing” – but it’s a well-intentioned nod that brings some levity, just as the gore is shocking but not without some sense of entertainment (particularly during an early display of Laura’s own powers).

Keen will certainly be one to watch. At first she appears to be contributing a very run-of-the-mill silent, staring child performance, but when the plot kicks into high-gear, the intensity she displays is truly remarkable. Stephen Merchant brings the weirdness of the older ­X-Men films as an albino mutant-finder, Caliban. References to Merchant’s “goggle-eyed” appearance might have begun as a long-running gag on the XFM show he used to host with Ricky Gervais, but his particular features and sarcastic intonations are a great fit, providing stark contrast to Logan’s introspective glowering and Xavier’s incoherent, rambling regrets.

That the film is so deliberately vague with regard to Xavier’s troubled recent history pays dividends: there’s little explanation about what happened to the other mutants, what state the wider world is in (our only indication here is empty backdrops and stricter border controls), or what the ‘Westchester Incident’ refers to. All we really know is that Xavier’s degenerating telepathic mind is now considered a weapon of mass destruction, which is itself enough to spark our intrigue and fear.

My social media feed this week has been full of people ranking Logan alongside previous X-Men films, but it seems weird to do so considering just how different it is. Subplots are almost exposition-free, visual effects are used sparingly, and even the cinematography and production design feel less machine-tooled. It’s a grimy, hyper-violent thriller; a toeing of the genre line (far more so than Deadpool’s already outdated in-jokes) that stands alone, and ends on the most perfect note imaginable.

The best moment in Marvel’s latest cinematic universe building block comes when an egotistical white man gets punched. For a series that replicates this beat time and again (see any movie featuring Tony Stark, Scott Lang, Thor, or their respective villains), it’s no mean feat to make the act feel special again.

In the case of Doctor Strange, said wallop arrives when Stephen Strange (Benedict Cumberbatch, playing a neurosurgeon who loses the use of his hands in a car accident) haughtily discards the very idea of spiritual healing. Tired of Strange’s close-mindedness, The Ancient One (Tilda Swinton) delivers a hefty thwack to his chest, whereupon his astral form is catapulted from its physical body, before being hurtled across the dimensions. It’s a brilliant juncture that rewards threefold: as deftly-executed punchline for the scene, an epiphany for the reluctant hero, and an eye-widening joyride for the audience, demonstrating the psychedelic visuals to come.

By this point in the movie, we’ve briefly dipped our toes into the special effects during a brawl between Swinton’s guru and Mads Mikkelsen as grimacing zealot Kaecilius, but Strange’s first encounter with the mirror dimension is a headfirst dive into kaleidoscopic abandon. Entire solar systems fold in on themselves, human faces contort and replicate infinitely, and when the sequence comes back to Earth with a bump, we’re left gasping for more just as much as the dumbfounded Strange.

The Ancient One informs us that these effects are confined strictly to the mirror dimension, with no effect on our reality. So when this maelstrom of magic returns for later action set pieces, the key question is “Why should we care?” The city-levelling CGI clouds witnessed in at least half a dozen other Marvel films may have become repetitive, but at least we understood there was a human cost. Here, the finale deliberately creates a similar setup – broiling clouds of digital distortion included – but subverts our expectations by immediately making the climax all about the characters – more specifically their brains, not brawn. Plus, it’s the closest a Hollywood production has ever come to resembling a YouTube Poop (parody content where videos are warped, repeated, reversed, or otherwise altered for comedic or entertainment effect), and I make this comparison as a massive compliment to the creative minds at play.

This isn’t to uphold the mind-bending visuals as the only, nor even the largest source of comedy. The script is witty enough that our suspension of disbelief can survive numerous silly names (Dormammu, Mordo, etc) and a whole heap of mystical jargon, while Cumberbatch, Swinton, Chiwetel Ejiofor and co all pick up the Marvel mix of serious and snarky very well. Cumberbatch in particular manages to avoid accusations of overexposure by playing a character that actually gets to emote for once. The cold disinterest of Sherlock or the calculated shyness of Alan Turing are involving facades, but not particularly sympathetic. Strange is a barking, whimpering misanthrope who learns to have a laugh every now and again at himself, rather than others. He also gets ten kinds of stuffing knocked out of him by the Cape of Levitation in his efforts to be worthy, which is endlessly amusing (putting in my early bid for it to win Best Supporting Actor).

Pitfalls appear every once in a while: Rachel McAdams does very well in a reverse-but-not-really love interest role, until the narrative sees fit to drop her from the final act. It’s also a shade too long (but then, what superhero film couldn’t do with losing a good ten minutes of exposition?), and it uses none of its time to give Scott Derrickson any chance to develop a signature directorial style. His previous horror works (Sinister, The Exorcism of Emily Rose, Deliver Us From Evil to name a few) bear little idiosyncrasy, so perhaps this is Marvel taking a chance on a ‘clean slate’ as it were, removed from the pop-culture infusion of the Russo Brothers, or the vintage aesthetic of Joe Johnston.

For all the usual MCU potholes it sometimes stumbles into, Doctor Strange is smart, funny, inventive, and hugely enjoyable. It’s the first of the series since Iron Man to feel like a genuine standalone; a story that can be enjoyed by newcomers as much as die-hard fans. The latter will stay seated for end credits stings regardless, but the Michael Giacchino score makes waiting less of a chore and more of a toe-tapping cooldown for everyone else.

This third instalment in DC’s ongoing attempt to establish a cinematic universe takes a break from the usual heroics to give the bad guys a moment in the sun. Having realised that the next Superman may be less-than friendly, shady government executive Amanda Waller (Viola Davis), delves into a portfolio featuring the worst of the worst in order to face the next big threat with her own powerful (and, more importantly, deniable) assets. The diverse group Waller hopes to recruit includes The Joker’s psychotic accomplice and girlfriend, Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie), expert hitman Deadshot (Will Smith), fire-commanding crime lord El Diablo (Jay Hernandez) and a selection of other scumbags, led by Colonel Rick Flag (Joel Kinnaman).

With the promise of commuted prison sentences, Waller soon demands ‘Task Force X’ to deal with Cara Delevigne’s Enchantress, her brother (a CGI creation who wouldn’t look out of place in Gods of Egypt) and the beam of energy they’ve shot into the atmosphere for ill-defined maniacal reasons, ala the sky laser-wielding villains of Avengers, Fantastic Four, and even Transformers: Dark of the Moon. Still, sporting unique quirks and a slightly more malleable attitude to world-saving than their usually righteous enemies, the Suicide Squad arrive with a promise to inject a dose of fun into the DC-verse. 

I can already hear readers rushing to their keyboards to tell me that comparisons to Marvel’s surprise smash-hit superhero comedy are invalid, but hear me out. ‘Suicide Squad’ is a nasty name attributed to a bunch of people made to do good, whilst ‘Guardians of the Galaxy’ is a grandiose moniker for, essentially, a band of idiots and miscreants. The two groups are warped reflections of each other, sideshows to the mainstream appeal of The Avengers or Batman and Superman. 

In filmic terms, both are properties arriving on the scene with a different set of expectations, but ultimately a very similar structure: a bunch of losers are begrudgingly drafted into battling a generic mystical bad guy to the sound of classic pop hits, with a far more influential villain looming in the background. What makes one a success and the other not is that Guardians of the Galaxy was always intended to be an irreverent knock-about, whilst Suicide Squad has been surgically altered and reconstructed after an unprecedented fan reaction to the initial trailer as well as critical exasperation towards the dour tone of Batman v Superman. The intention to change a gritty ensemble piece showcasing the true dark side of superhero movies (seemingly a natural fit for Fury director, David Ayer) into a tongue-in-cheek pallet-cleanser after Zack Snyder’s grungy effort is not an entirely misguided one, but it’s almost totally fumbled.

Before even setting foot in the cinema, no doubt your eyes will have been seared by a selection of gumball-coloured posters and a smattering of toe-tapping trailers awash with cheeky winks and sly one-liners, breaking through the crash-bang-wallop of standard marketing procedure. And, for a brief moment, the film itself appears to be holding true to this promise: the opening movement sees Waller (given an impressively hawk-like presence by Davis) deliver a brief introduction to the motley crew one-by-one, each character assigned a cheat-sheet adorned with neat little Easter eggs and a pop song to match. Unfortunately, around the time Killer Croc (a mutated cannibal who devolves into an exasperating black American stereotype towards the climax) is introduced, this becomes less finger-clicking and more eye-rolling; like when your brother gets control of the car stereo and plays 30 seconds of a song before getting bored and pressing ‘skip’.

There’s rarely even a method to this madness: a chunk of Black Sabbath’s Paranoid heralds a scene of Harley Quinn being extracted from her cell, because she’s…um, paranoid…I guess? Come to think of it, Harley’s actual condition is never explained beyond a slavish devotion to her ‘Mister J.’, and there’s nothing to indicate exactly what makes her a ‘metahuman’, either. Then again, the same could be said of Jai Courtney’s weirdly entertaining Captain Boomerang, and, to a far larger extent, Adam Beach’s ludicrously unnecessary Slipknot: brought into play literally five seconds before the squad set off, he’s introduced by an off-screen ADR line from Flag stating ‘he can climb anything!’, and whose defining moment is punching a woman in the face because ‘she had a mouth on her’. 

When the film realises you’re already tiring of these people, it cuts back to an enlarged cameo by Jared Leto’s much touted interpretation of The Joker. Our reward for sitting through months of method-acting publicity tripe is little over three minutes of screen-time, during which Leto rasps and cackles and wobbles around eccentrically…but never actually cracks a joke or contributes anything substantial to the plot. The comedy (the definition of which I brandish slightly looser than the entire squad’s morals combined) is left largely to Robbie, Smith and Courtney, in short inserts clearly added in reshoots (keep an eye on Joel Kinnaman’s changing hair length). 

Smith’s natural charisma breaks the shackles of Deadshot’s predictable, seen-it-all-before redemption arc, and Robbie sinks effortlessly into the skin of Harley. She delivers a near-perfect cinematic representation of the much-loved comic character, but this winning portrayal is often undermined by the films treatment of her. A short scene detailing her capture has Ben Affleck’s Batman giving her tongue-heavy mouth-to-mouth before pinning her down by the throat, and the camera constantly hangs at just the right level to make her hot pants-clad bottom the centre of the frame. This return to sexualised costumes and Affleck’s Clooney-esque delivery of “It’s over, Deadshot!” almost undoes 20 years’ worth of progress since the bums and puns age of Joel Schumacher’s Batman and Robin. 

Ayer totally, unapologetically calls Suicide Squad “an anarchic, punk rock art movie”. Anyone privy to the cynically constructed final product will be knocked unconscious by the massive irony, before briefly realising that the only daring move the film makes is to make Harley order a tortured and guilt-sodden El Diablo to “Own that shit!", in reference to a horrific act of slaughter he once committed against innocent people.