Superman

Writer-director James Gunn's latest dissection of costumed heroism opens with a broad-chested, Joe Shuster illustration of a Golden Age Superman springing to life to flex his muscles and pop the paltry chains that encircle him. As an opening note it's not quite as grandiose as Richard Donner parting velvet curtains before blasting off into space but, again, we're being asked to consider the totemic might wielded by those original Action Comics. Almost immediately following, once some cryptic expositional text is out of the way, we're thrust into a losing battle for Krypton's last son with Lex Luthor, played by Nicholas Hoult, orchestrating this airborne one-on-one from a command room that mixes overlit standing desks with the cranks and dials seen in animated, Fleischer shorts like The Mad Scientist, or Electric Earthquake. Throughout, Luthor screams at the spittle-flecked underlings controlling his slave superhuman, with the madman using the kind of fighting game input notation that you might expect to find seated beneath an ASCII art heading on GameFAQs. 

So, despite a bleached post-processing that resembles a lifestyle magazine that has been left to curl in Earth's yellow sun, Gunn's film, in casting a net wide enough to include minor (or simply old-fashioned) DC characters like Bob Haney and Ramona Fradon's Metamorpho, betrays an adoring sort of fluency for this material. One that goes beyond the expected deification of Christopher Reeve's caped adventures or violent, satirical comics that were published in the 1980s and put the zap on one Zachary Edward Snyder. David Corenswet's frequently astonished Superman, fresh from being tossed about above Metropolis, takes another pummelling a few beats later when he submits to being interviewed, in-character, by his girlfriend, Rachel Brosnahan's Lois Lane. Even with a waist-coated wardrobe that recalls the vague era of the seventies, if not the specifics of Margot Kidder's 70s-does-30s wardrobe, Brosnahan's Lois is a chimeric creation who brings to mind the small screen royalty of the wider Warner Bros kingdom: the high-pitched register of Courtney Cox's Monica Geller or really any of the leading women in Amy Sherman-Palladino's Gilmore Girls (Brosnahan's breakthrough role in Amazon's The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel courtesy of the very same writer-director-producer). 

All of which is to say that this Lois is not just written to be intelligent but also principled and atypically argumentative. She's challenging for a character like Clark who, blessed with an ability to shrug off gunfire, is far more forthright and binary in his thinking. You see, Gunn's Superman examines him from a perspective of the supreme, unyielding altruism present in the character's earliest, domestic abuse-thwarting incarnation. The Biblical strain placed on this big screen character by the patchwork screenplay of the 1978 movie lingers here only to be dismissed, conclusively, by a piece that relentlessly positions everything that is great about Superman being the result of him being raised by adoring, older parents rather than the expectations mapped onto him by alien prophecy. Gunn's film also correctly identifies that the rise in fascism, corporatism and authoritarianism that we are all experiencing is, essentially, the same as that which faced a Lithuanian immigrant back in the 1930s. So, like Jerry Siegel before him, the writer-director doesn't chicken out on the implications of a working-class man possessed of a Godly power and the difference they can then make in the lives of everyday people. 

Superman is able to travel incredible distances to help the struggling people of this planet, so he does exactly that. In this instance that means interfering in the US-backed invasion of Jarhanpur by all-encompassing belligerent, Boravia. Although there's a whistling aside about the two countries being situated somewhere in Eastern Europe, the parallels between this film's images of Arab civilians dressed in rags being shelled by white troops kitted out like futuristic storm troopers and the ongoing genocide in Palestine are not just obvious but unmistakable. Rather than unthinkingly side with the expansionist interests of his adopted nation, this Superman intervenes on behalf of the oppressed, demanding pause from the frothing Boravians. Gunn has previously used the fictional countries of the DC comics universe when making contentious points (see The Suicide Squad) but this instance goes far beyond a permissible canvas on which to stage repulsive, gross-out gags. The writer-director now offers up instead a proletariat messiah committed to protecting the weak from moneyed bullies and the soaring, magical sight of Isabela Merced's Hawkgirl - in a sequence which may well be intended to echo the moment that a Thanagarian child, in the throes of retribution, chose to stave-in Lex Luthor's skull from Frank Miller and Lynn Varley's The Dark Knight Strikes Again - lifting a bloodthirsty dictator up into the air then, rather than listen to any of his blustering apologia, letting him plunge screaming to the ground below.

The Suicide Squad

Set on the fictional island of Corto Maltese, a Cold War critical South American territory named for Hugo Pratt's sea captain that first appeared in Frank Miller, Klaus Janson and Lynn Varley's The Dark Knight Returns, James Gunn's latest, The Suicide Squad, allows the writer-director - not to mention Warner bros' hundreds of millions of dollars - to relitigate the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba, substituting in third-string supervillains for history's well-armed exiles. A military coup on the aforementioned isle has allowed an American black site to change hands from a pro-US incumbent to a war-mongering General eager to lay waste to his former oppressor with extra-terrestrial weaponry. To Suicide Squad's credit, the transitioning country does display all the hallmarks of having been a Washington vassal state - the majority of the population suffer in abject poverty while soldiers drive around in General Motors Humvees, loaded down with heavily customised M-16s. 

Naturally, Harley Quinn and pals are far more successful than their real-life counterparts when it comes to violently evangelising CIA sponsored democracy, ceding power to a small group of electable revolutionaries by, simply, killing everybody else who could fill that power vacuum. Pitched at the gross-out comedy end of the superhero spectrum - see also the Deadpool films - The Suicide Squad revels in the kind of mass extermination that is often weaponised against Gunn's former collaborator, Zack Snyder. The city levelling rampage of a villain lifted from the first appearance of the Justice League of America (1960's The Brave and the Bold #28 - the original Suicide Squad appearing in the previous issues) comfortably kills thousands of civilians. Presumably, the lack of outrage at this outcome is due to the audience's ability to tune into Gunn's tonal wavelength rather than, say, the fact that Snyder's Man of Steel demolished literal pillars of western hegemony, ending middle class North American lives, rather than working class Latin American ones. 

Nominally a sequel to David Ayer's chopped and screwed misfire, Gunn inherits several choice pieces of casting for his own film - the most reliable of which are Margot Robbie's Dr Quinzel, the closest thing the current DC cinematic universe has to a lynchpin, and Viola Davis' cold-blooded take on Amanda Waller. Bizarrely, Idris Elba is recruited to repeat a great deal of Will Smith's arc from the previous film, except this time with a greater emphasis on transforming gadgets. John Cena, recently seen failing to plug the Dwayne Johnson sized hole in F9, is much more at home in this film, consciously leaning further and further into the plastic absurdity of the action figure outline he has cultivated. Armed with a helmet that looks very much like a chromed dickhead, Cena's bloodthirsty Peacemaker is the performance most of a piece with Gunn's violent flippancy; likely the reason that the ex-pro wrestler already has a spin-off streaming series lined up. Gunn's film then, loaded down with exploding mutants and cringing misfits, displays an obvious affection for DC's more obscure comic book characters, if not the persecuted citizens of the Second World.

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2

Disney's all-out assault on the ageing process continues in Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2. This time the mega-corp serve us up a digitally sandblasted image of Kurt Russell cackling his way through an early-80s courting session. Stranded in this instant, it's difficult to gauge whether we're working our way through a brief technological blip in which digital artists are pushing their new toy to its limits or we're in the opening stages of a new, unreal frontier where no star, no matter how old or dead they are, is safe from a computer generated face lift.

Given the ubiquity of the technique in their tent-pole releases, it's clear Disney are hoping to normalise these blurry, synthetic performances. Perhaps they see the practice as another portfolio opportunity? They own almost everything else. Their stranglehold on the images and aspirations that cascade into childhood aren't enough for these IP hoarders, they want to take possession of faces and voices now, transforming the very idea of human identity into pliant, malleable data that can, feasibly, be used for any purpose. Really, the only thing holding Disney back in this new, terrible arena is the public's gag reflex.

The point where digital homage creeps into the repulsive is difficult to gauge and seems to vary wildly by star. Peter Cushing's resurrection in Rogue One: A Star Wars Story didn't raise half the stink that greeted the suggestion that a similar technique might be used to reanimate Carrie Fisher for Episode IX. That was too raw a nerve but - the Disney genie pleads - who doesn't want to see Kurt Russell returned to the prime of his life? Moral principles are great but why deny ourselves the chance to return to a time when the actor was young and perfect, frozen between The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes and Escape from New York?

Director James Gunn, to his credit, pushes the idea of an indestructible software Kurt to the limits of the PG-13 rating. The actor is blasted apart then messily rebuilt, layer by excruciating layer, before crumbling into a shapeless, data-heavy sludge. Guardians 2 must be a uniquely horrifying experience for Russell. The star is given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see exactly what his body would look like after lasers have bored through it or how his organs might jiggle and pulse as they're knitting themselves into a box fresh skeleton.

These shameless displays of excess neatly encapsulate the experiences of watching Guardians 2. It delivers over and over again without respite, providing blazing, luminescent movement slathered all over jarring, dramatically compartmentalised, emotional pain. Sometimes these interactions work, granting us an insight into these tortured four colour characters. Other times they're just grist for the next punchline. Nothing is ever left alone long enough to simmer either, so when the film actually wants you to be sad there is always a beat or two where you're left wondering if a joke is just about to creep in and explode the moment.

Guardians of the Galaxy

Sold as all-things to all-people, Guardians of the Galaxy is a thoroughly pleasant reorganising of Star Wars that makes Leia damaged and vengeful, doubles down on Han Solo and Chewbacca and drops Luke altogether. Stuck delivering flavour for another Avengers ejaculation, James Gunn and pals punch up your basic Marvel adventure with Awesome Mix Tapes, Boogie Nights actors, and a few sideways glances at genuine pain.

As expected it's Rocket Raccoon that stands out. Bradley Cooper's voice work is complimentary but the real work is done by Sean Gunn's on-set acting and an army of digital animators. Volumes are spoken in how the raccoon holds his head. Naturally subordinated due to his diminutive size, Rocket refuses to be dominated. He doesn't scurry around, craning his neck to meet eyes. He points his nose down and peers upwards, sneering. He isn't short. You're just too tall.

Rocket is a head-on collision between Lee Van Cleef and the Jim Henson Creature Shop's Splinter from the 1990 Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie - a beguiling rodent with the body language of a gunslinger. I presume Gunn loves him too. The co-writer (with Nicole Perlman) / director gives the other Guardians beats that tell you who they are and what their objective is. Rocket gets a comedy bounty motivation then a vague, upsetting past splutters out in visual asides and drunken mumbling. In a film full of heroic archetypes, Rocket is contradictory and exciting.

Guardians' only real problem is that by now Marvel movie action beats are becoming routine. As with The Avengers and Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Guardians ends with a skyborne threat to a picturesque city. Thanks to this film's space opera bent, we get a tiered assault that accounts for multiple, co-habiting planes of action. The CG overload is kept personal with some Chris Foss designed fighter jets that swarm over their prey like Japanese Honey Bees, attempting to cook the evil Ronan in his mausoleum ship. Still, the basic heft of the final attack plays like a Star Wars prequel.

James Gunn's film even has an embedded solution - embrace the cosmic realm. We see one of Jack Kirby's Eternals obliterating a planet and an entire civilisation is built around mining the disembodied head of a galactic space titan. The film teeters on the edge of intergalactic histrionics, but never really commits. Ronan the Accuser is a Shonen manga villain, a space pirate swinging his dick about whilst in possession of reality bending jewellery. There's never a sense our heroes can beat him - he's on a different level entirely.

Marvel need to start looking to more melodramatic solutions. Bone up on Akira Toriyama or marathon histrionic pro-wrestling promotions. Holding hands while purple electricity vaporises the baddie isn't particularly satisfying. Why aren't the Guardians throwing themselves at this monolith man as a unit, sneaking in the odd blow, but ultimately proving themselves ineffectual? Maybe then have a death or two, followed by a rage fuelled counter attack that gets Ronan wobbly and staggering back?

Ronan instantly recovers then lands a devastating blow on Gamora, forcing an intervention from the unfathomable Thanos. Why else was the Mad Titan telling us who his favourite daughter was? It's about time Marvel put their big bad over, particularly if all he's doing is glowering until 2018. Ronan's world ending club? Thanos shrugs the blow off with a laugh then dismantles its owner with slow, measured body blows. If you're going to invoke Darkseid - even through Jim Starlin's avatar - he should figure as part of the destination. Otherwise he's just advertising. Marvel's films drip feed like television when they really need to embrace something wild and cinematic.

Super

Super would make for a fine chaser to Observe and Report's maximum ugly. Both deal with mental illness as a primary component in the urge to enforce order. Super details the wrench wielding adventures of Frank D'Arbo, a short-order chef with a relapsing junkie wife and a hotline to Christ. After a hentai slanted communion with the Almighty, D'Arbo sets to policing his city as The Crimson Bolt. D'Arbo's street-level lawmaking motors on a simplistic after-school morality that eventually extends to braining yuppies who break basic social contracts.

Crimson Bolt is ably assisted by Libby, a micro-hipster with a hyena laugh and a taste for ultraviolence. First encountered as a sweary pop-culture tour guide, Libby eventually becomes The Crimson Bolt's ward Boltie. Beginning as a chaste hang-out, their team-up steadily mutates into a terrifying actualisation of the super sexual dysfunction noted by Dr Fredric Wertham. Super pops thanks to Rainn Wilson's sad-sack performance. Wilson is wonderful as a queasy, stunted man hopelessly screaming into the void. The film stumbles slightly with an ending that seems to imply growth, before mutating the sentiment with a prolonged gaze at D'Arbo's bemused, frowned up fizzog. Hopefully, he's learnt nothing.