Recently Viewed - Batman: Caped Crusader

Batman: Caped Crusader does not aspire to be the definitive interpretation of the eponymous superhero, nor is it a postmodern deconstruction of the “tropes,” “lore,” and “mythology” traditionally associated with the source material (à la Matt Reeves’ recent blockbuster film). It’s just a straightforward, no-frills adaptation—and in an era where everything comic book related has to be a capital “E” Event, that modesty feels positively radical.

The show’s structure is elegant in its simplicity. As in Bruce Timm’s classic ‘90s animated series (as well as such similarly influential works as Teen Titans and Batman: The Brave and the Bold), each episode tells a self-contained story, with a handful of recurring threads—Harvey Dent’s mayoral campaign, the increasingly blatant corruption of Detectives Flass and Bullock, the gradual development of Bruce Wayne’s initially icy relationship with Alfred—contributing to a season-spanning narrative arc that ultimately culminates in an explosive two-part finale. This non-serialized approach allows the writers to experiment and discover variations on the versatile “villain of the week” formula: “…And Be a Villain” and “Kiss of the Catwoman”, for example, revolve entirely around the origins of their respective antagonists; “The Night of the Hunters”, meanwhile, utilizes its costumed criminal du jour as a mere prop in a plot that explores the growing schism within the Gotham Police Department.

Beyond this surface-level familiarity, of course, there is ample room for novelty, innovation, and subversion. The creative team’s depiction of Batman’s duality is particularly compelling. Defying the commonly held fan theory that the performative “lazy playboy” façade is the real mask, whereas the “brooding vigilante” alter ego is closer to his actual self, this iteration of our hero treats both personae as equally fabricated—divergent embodiments of the same fundamental vulnerabilities. His “true identity” resides somewhere between these extremes, obfuscated by the repressed trauma that he refuses to confront, emerging only in fleeting moments of compassion—when he prioritizes rescuing imperiled innocents over pursuing perps, for instance, or when he chooses to be merciful towards his vanquished foes.

Lean, efficient, and easily digestible, Batman: Caped Crusader is refreshingly old school in its style and sensibilities. To Hell with the corporate gruel of Multiverses, multibillion-dollar budgets, and bloated “prestige” television; give me ten more years of the bite-sized gourmet meals that Timm, Reeves, and Abrams are cooking.

The Rise of Skywalker: Letting the Past Die

[WARNING: MAJOR STAR WARS SPOILERS BELOW!]

Return of the Jedi’s controversial revelation that Leia was actually Luke’s twin sister all along has never really bothered me. In my mind, it was always as much a part of the series’ DNA as Vader being Luke’s father; it was, after all, added to the canon before I was born, so I just accepted it, no questions asked.

It sure pissed off plenty of viewers back in 1983, though.

From my first viewing, I have considered The Rise of Skywalker to be perfectly enjoyable; its visual style is absolutely breathtaking, and its various chase scenes, sword fights, and space battles are fun and exciting in the moment. My personal problems with the film exist on a broader, more fundamental level: I simply feel that it fails to serve as a satisfying grand finale because it refuses to build on the themes introduced in the previous installments.

The earlier episodes of the Sequel Trilogy laid such a promising foundation: The Force Awakens explored a galaxy trapped in the shadows of its own dark past, while The Last Jedi argued that the new heroes would need to learn from their predecessors’ mistakes in order to break the cycle of war and violence. The Rise of Skywalker squanders nearly all of that tantalizing potential, instead recycling old, familiar twists and plot devices. Consequently, it’s about as generic and formulaic as the franchise gets—safe, comfortable, and utterly predictable.

As I reflect on my… complicated relationship with the movie, however, I am forced to acknowledge that it doesn’t truly belong to me. When future generations of Star Wars enthusiasts sit down to experience The Rise of Skywalker for the first time, their eyes unclouded by hype and overinflated expectations, will they even care that J.J. Abrams needlessly revised Rey’s origins, or that the unexplained revival of Emperor Palpatine was gratuitous at best?

As an unrepentant Prequel Trilogy apologist, who the hell am I to judge?

This will be my last word on the topic of Episode IX; it’s time to take Yoda’s advice and let go of my anger—before the Dark Side of this fandom consumes me as it has so many others.

The Rise of Skywalker: A Galaxy of Missed Opportunities

[The following post contains MAJOR SPOILERS and a whole lot of FANBOY WHINING; consider yourself warned!]

The Rise of Skywalker improves significantly on second viewing. Without the burden of anticipation, the visuals become more spectacular, the emotional beats more resonant, and the character arcs more compelling. The Tatooine-set epilogue in particular is a lot more palatable once you’ve had an opportunity to digest its thematic subtleties; director J.J. Abrams’ talent for mythic symbolism is on full display: the twin sabers and twin spirits that were once separated are at long last reunited beneath the twin suns where the saga began. The only flaw lies in who delivers them to their final resting place: Abrams and co-writer Chris Terrio make the newly-christened Rey Skywalker the custodian of the blades when Kylo Ren would have been the more logical choice.

I have no problem with the controversial “Redemption Equals Death” trope in theory, but I simply cannot deny that its execution here is somewhat... lacking. Ben Solo’s premature demise feels like a grievous waste of potential; he was the Sequel Trilogy’s most interesting character (despite his less-than-impressive debut, and quite contrary to his detractors’ insistence that he was a one-dimensional space Nazi/domestic abuser), and there remained ample opportunity for further exploration following his return to the Light Side of The Force. He’s coveted the lightsaber wielded by his grandfather and uncle since the series began in 2015; wouldn’t it be more appropriate for him to deliver the weapon to the world that they once inhabited, metaphorically abandoning his dark ambitions? Likewise, wouldn’t exiling himself to the most remote and isolated reaches of the Dune Sea (much like his namesake) be a fitting act of atonement? Heck, a clever and committed storyteller could even find a happy compromise to satisfy both sides of the “shipping” debate by having Ben acknowledge that he’s far too emotionally damaged to pursue a romantic relationship with Rey—at least until he’s had time to heal. Of course, such narrative blemishes are merely symptoms of the movie’s accelerated production schedule, and complaining about what could—or should—have been done differently is hardly constructive. Then again... it’s certainly not the only plot development that would have benefitted from a few more revisions (Rose Tico, for example, should absolutely have been the one to stay behind with Finn to destroy the Sith command ship, considering she was explicitly studying old Star Destroyer schematics during the substantial period of time she spent off-screen). I suppose the moral here is that studios should stop setting release dates before the screenplay has been finished; nothing good ever comes of rushing to meet an arbitrary deadline.

The Rise of Skywalker: Interplanetary Conflicts and Family Feuds

[The following review contains MAJOR SPOILERS; you have been warned!]

Well, to quote the late Orson Krennic: “We were on the verge of greatness. We were this close.”

I’ve been a staunch supporter of Disney’s Sequel Trilogy since the release of its first installment back in 2015. Despite its superficial flaws (particularly regarding its underwhelming antagonists) The Force Awakens’ compelling visual motifs actually inspired me to start writing reviews and essays again following a prolonged motivational drought, and although The Last Jedi was a bit... controversial (but let’s face facts: this fandom has been irreparably toxic since the Special Editions hit theaters, at the very least), I found its rich thematic subtext to be absolutely captivating. Unfortunately, the Skywalker Saga’s alleged grand finale—apparently representing a deliberate attempt by J.J. Abrams to “clean up Rian Johnson’s mess,” to paraphrase one especially venomous, but not entirely inaccurate, Twitter post that went viral (a ridiculous sentiment, by the way; contrary to popular opinion, there was nothing for Abrams to “fix”—because Johnson never “broke” anything!)—is more flash than substance; stylistically, The Rise of Skywalker is certainly a thrilling adventure, but its efforts to resolve nearly every lingering plot thread while simultaneously expanding upon the established lore leaves the story too muddled, jumbled, and busy to be completely satisfying.

[FINAL WARNING: SPOILERS BELOW THE BREAK!]

Recently Viewed: Overlord

First thing’s first: despite being produced by J.J. Abrams' Bad Robot, Overlord is not an entry in the Cloverfield franchise—though there are enough vestigial organs in the script to suggest that it may have been in an earlier draft.

The marketing for this so-called “Nazi zombie” flick left me feeling as though the studio had missed its ideal release window: dropping a horror film in early November—rather than mid-October, when Halloween spirit reaches its pinnacle—seemed like a rather egregious miscalculation. Having seen the finished product, however, I can understand the logic behind opening on Veterans Day weekend: from the harrowing sequence in which our heroes parachute into France amidst the flaming wreckage of their air support to the explosive climax, Overlord is, above all else, a war movie primarily concerned with immersing the viewer in the experience of being a soldier stranded in hostile territory. The more overtly supernatural/sci-fi elements represent a mid-narrative genre shift akin to Predator or From Dusk Till Dawn—and even then, they remain secondary to the morality play that unfolds as our protagonists become increasingly brutal in their efforts to accomplish their mission. Indeed, at the risk of sounding pretentious, the undead monsters may simply be a metaphor for how hatred can pervert the noblest of intentions into indiscriminate savagery.

After all, what value does victory hold if the “good guys” achieve it by committing as many atrocities as their vanquished foes?

Currently Binging: Westworld (2016)

Finally sitting down to binge HBO’s Westworld. 

I don’t think I’ve ever encountered a piece on non-video game media that had such a firm understanding of both the mechanics of interactive storytelling and the mentality of serious players (Mamoru Oshii’s Avalon comes in a close second). Ed Harris’ amoral character stands out in particular: he’s not in it for the narrative experience, but to crack the system wide open and find out what makes it tick—much like my brother, who will gleefully sequence break at every opportunity (though even I derive some satisfaction from discovering the overpowered strategies that turn games like The Witcher 3 and Dragon’s Dogma into cakewalks).

 Of course, all this has more to do with the world-building than the actual plot or themes, but that added bit of authenticity is greatly appreciated.

Reexamining "Mission: Impossible III" (2006)

In my mind, Mission: Impossible III exists as a gap between the aesthetic excesses of John Woo's Hong Kong-flavored Mission: Impossible II and the immaculately constructed thrills of Brad Bird's Ghost Protocol. My memories of seeing it during its theatrical release were hazy at best. I vaguely recalled that Tom Cruise's Ethan Hunt got married. I vaguely recalled that Philip Seymour Hoffman played the sleazy central villain. I vaguely recalled that I didn't hate it. But I couldn't have summarized the plot if you'd offered me four billion dollars and a pristine copy of the original nine-hour cut of Erich Von Stroheim's Greed.

After re-watching the film last night for the first time in six years, I think I finally understand why: it quite frankly lacks any semblance of structural elegance (possibly owing to a troubled production)--especially when compared with the franchise's fourth entry. Ghost Protocol features a cast of dynamic, well-rounded supporting characters; M:I III features a team of walking, talking props that exist solely to fill in the empty space on either side of Tom Cruise. Ghost Protocol features a series of suspenseful set pieces that gradually escalate in intensity, building up to an edge-of-your-seat climax; M:I III attempts to compensate for its somewhat repetitive action sequences (explosion, gunshot, explosion, frantic phone call, car flip, explosion) by making Agent Hunt's motives increasingly personal from one scene to the next (rescue protege, avenge protege, rescue wife). Most importantly, Ghost Protocol features narrative clarity: the viewer always understands the challenges our protagonists must face, from the monumental stakes (global nuclear holocaust) to the seemingly insurmountable obstacles (the heroes have been disavowed by their government, and must therefore complete their mission without any official support). M:I III features a plot so laden with ill-defined elements that it becomes nearly incomprehensible; I frequently found myself asking questions that should have been addressed as far back as the second draft of the script: "What are the Big Bad's long term goals?" "How large is his organization, and how many resources does it have at its disposal?" "What exactly is the Rabbit's Foot?"

(I know, I know. The Rabbit's Foot is obviously meant to be a MacGuffin. Like the wine bottles full of uranium in Alfred Hitchcock's Notorious, it could have been literally anything as long as it moved the story forward. The difference is that Hitchcock was wise enough to refrain from constantly calling attention to that fact.)

Director J.J. Abrams is a competent enough craftsman (his excellent work on the Star Trek reboot is evidence enough of that), but even he could have done little to elevate such a fundamentally flawed screenplay. His visual flair simply cannot overcome the undeniable absence of storytelling polish. That is why Ghost Protocol will endure as an action-adventure classic on par with Raiders of the Lost Ark and The Castle of Cagliostro, while Mission: Impossible III will fade into obscurity before even Woo's delightfully silly second installment.