Chris At The Pictures

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.

Bryan Singer’s finale to the second X-Men trilogy is nominally set in 1983, but begins millennia before: ancient, all-powerful being En Sabah Nur transfers his consciousness into a new body (Oscar Isaac in a loincloth, wahey!), but is encased beneath the pyramids by his enemies. Centuries later, a cult re-awakens him as Apocalypse, whereupon he takes four of the most powerful mutants under his wing: the newly-bereaved Eric Lensherr/Magneto (Michael Fassbender), Storm, Psylocke and Angel (Alexandra Shipp, Olivia Munn and Eastenders breakout Ben Hardy, respectively). Determined to prevent oncoming cataclysm, Charles Xavier (James McAvoy) and the redeemed Mystique (Jennifer Lawrence) are joined by the younger iterations of classic heroes Jean Grey (Sophie Turner), Cyclops (Tye Sheridan) and Nightcrawler (Kodi Smit-McPhee). 

Matthew Vaughn’s First Class was a cheery romp, whilst Days of Future Past took itself a little more seriously in an effort to repair the damage done by more turgid entries. Tonally, Apocalypse meanders awkwardly in-between the two. Chucklesome back-and-forth between Charles and old flame Moira (Rose Byrne) is followed soon after by Eric’s return to the scene of his parent’s death in Auschwitz, before we’re back for more zippy escapades with Evan Peters’ Quicksilver (stealing the film out from under his cohorts once more).

Tonal differences aside, both preceding films at least kept focus on a single overarching narrative, but Apocalypse is far too long and overstuffed when it needn’t be, Singer and co. often sacrificing coherence in the main plot for a plethora of fan service and eighties references. At one point the younger mutants exit a screening of Return of the Jedi, voicing their certainty that the third instalments of famous trilogies are a consistent let-down (a jibe intended for The Last Stand, but which hits a little closer to home by the end). When the period aesthetic is better integrated into key sequences, there’s a genuine thrill: Angel is christened by Apocalypse to the sound of Metallica’s The Four Horseman, and Eurythmics provide the backing track to Quicksilver’s moment in the sun.

With the baton firmly passed onto the new generation, the fresh-faced versions of previously-performed characters are more than up to snuff: Turner arguably makes a far more believably tortured Jean than Famke Janssen, whilst Sheridan and Smit-McPhee provide accessible, lively impressions of original trilogy actors. This affably bright trio is what ultimately helps Apocalypse rise above the glowering humdrum of the similarly baggy Batman v Superman. 

Oscar Isaac’s snake-tongued line delivery as Apocalypse lands on the amiable side of camp (fitting comfortably with the naff Duran Duran costumes), but does little to stifle concerns that – due to excessive make-up – it could be anyone in that armour. Singer’s committal to serving up the vast array of characters is also blighted by a constant, almost incestuous referral to the series’ tourist spots (we spend close to twenty minutes in a location explored by at least three previous films).

Whilst the finale is thematically much more interested in character development, the effects overload surrounding it could be swapped with any number of sky-tumbling climaxes from a dozen comic book movies and still yield the same result. The audaciousness of the Auschwitz sequence and some weird mind-game antics recall the unique desire to be different that we all remember from X-Men and X2. Such idiosyncrasy needs to be kept in mind, lest the series fall in line with the smash-n-dash super-heroics that Civil War so deftly avoided. 

Regardless, I think this is a superhero franchise more deserving of forgiveness than I’m perhaps letting on. Maybe it’s because the series has survived the entire MCU, outlived two attempts at Spider-Man and bounced back after several near-death experiences at the hands of Brett Ratner and Fox, or that I’m just very easily swayed by John Ottman’s pulse-pounding main theme. Stretched, stuffed, CGI warts and all, this remains a decent entry in the franchise and has finally given us what the noughties failed to deliver: a consistently enjoyable X-Men trilogy.