“Who will win?” screams the poster, as if that’s an actuality. Uh, “no bastard?” I thought, as I wandered into the cinema. Perhaps “Not me” would have been more apt. By the time those fucking half hour of adverts finally wave the white flag, I realised the correct answer – “The studio, of course”.
My main issue with Man of Steel was the utter carnage caused between Superman and Zod at the end of the movie. It felt like a great, immature nod-and-a-wink to the catastrophe of 9/11 what with all those buildings getting pulverised and crashing down around innocent civilians. One of the few things that this film gets right is that the citizens blame Superman for the carnage and resultant deaths.
What I really, really wanted next was to see Batman and Superman fight one another. But here’s the thing, whenever there is a “versus” in a title of a movie’s budget crossing over the one hundred million dollar mark, it’s very likely that they won’t be “versing” at all. This was my main apprehension going in, and boy, was I not disappointed.
Yawn of Justice is a slow, tedious affair in both the right and wrong hands in director Zack Snyder. Right hands: massive, overblown carnage – wrong hands, just about everything else. There’s the usual superhero slow-mo shots of people doing things, like walking and looking ultra perturbed. Cavill plays Superman as if he’s on mute. Amy Adams, I’m afraid to say, continues to silence me as I look on in wonder hat how she has a career, let alone be cast in the footsteps of Margot Kidder as Lois Lane. Ben Affleck is the portly Batman who’s definitely seen Nolan’s Nat-erations prior to signing up, and decides to *nearly* do that stupid voice.
The real bankruptcy of imagination in the multi-million tear-streaming bore-fest is Jesse “Oh, for Lex Luthor, why don’t we cast that fast-talking geeky dude from The Social Network” Eisenberg. It’s as if the producers had seen the performance from that 2010 film and completely misunderstood the point. I suppose in some distance parallel universe, this casting may have been inspired. On this planet, it’s maddeningly insipid. Jesse Eisenberg flattens the entire movie through no fault of his own; barking at the paycheck that no doubt will set up him up for both life and the entirety of the this godawful series. He’s only doing what he does best, and no-one can blame him. I suppose the same would be true if you cast Adam Sandler in a French new wave drama.
Then, there be carnage. The standout carnage-fuelled moment is the FUCKING RUNNING TIME. At an unholy two-and-a-half long, long hours, Yawn of Justice massively outstays its welcome and pretends to leave the party, before returning with all its mates and setting up camp for the night in your living room. Eventually the deliberately confounding plot (which has to be the single most stupid thing I’ve ever witnessed at a cinema) slams on the brakes and allows Superman and Batman to fight over a big dick-shaped sword of Kryptonite (or something), kiss, make-up and fight an electric Lexxy Sexxy Luther and his massive gay monster.
I should have known better, really. This is Zack Snyder, and his Watchmen days are far behind him. The only saving grave in the film – and by far the one thing that prevented me from poking my eyes out – was Holly Hunter as the senator. She’s mind blowingly stunning, even today. She dons a lovely white suit shortly before she’s blown to smithereens perfectly forming her immensely wonderful figure. Given that there are two gingers in the film, it does say something when the elder of the two is the more stunning. Inspired casting, to be sure – during the more tedious parts (i.e. every seventeen seconds) I began wondering what life may be like living with Holly Hunter and if a threesome with her and Adams wouldn’t be out of the question. Of course it’s out of the question.
I spent a good portion of time having a piss in the cinema toilet afterwards reflecting on the very same topic. It wasn’t until I had blow dried my hands and slumbered out into the daylight that it dawned on me; holy fuck, there were two ginger women in a blockbuster movie. That’s not a bad thing to smile and reflect on as you’re going down the escalator ten quid of pocket, and nursing a mild nausea. It’s quite another to be thinking the very same thing *during* the fucking film, though.
Author: Andrew Mackay
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