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| You
again? (l-r) Bosworth and Routh in Superman Returns. |
Man
of Mush
By
Laura Leon
Superman
Returns
Directed
by Bryan Singer
I,
for one, find it hard to imagine why we need a sequel of sorts
to the 1978 Superman, which catapulted Christopher
Reeve to stardom. It was a fun movie, and who could deny the
thrilling sensation provoked whenever the stage-trained Reeve
uttered a line? But Bryan Singer, for whatever reason, felt
the need to resurrect the caped one and to pick up where Superman
II left off. And so, One Life to Live’s Brandon
Routh returns in a fiery meteorite to the Kansas farm of his
Earth mother, Ma Kent (Eva Maria Saint), after having spent
five years searching for traces of his former interplanetary
home.
While Ma is just happy he made it back, with nary a mention
of all those missed Christmases and birthdays, Lois Lane (Kate
Bosworth), on the other hand, is mightily peeved, so much
so that her essay “Why the World Doesn’t Need Superman” has
caught the attention of the Pulitzer people. The years between
her one-night stand with Superman and his return have brought
not just career success, but motherhood and domestic bliss,
in the form of fiancé Richard (James Marsden), the nephew
of Daily Planet Chief Perry White (Frank Langella).
Also making hay during Superman’s absence has been Lex Luthor
(Kevin Spacey), who is using his inherited bazillions to travel
to the Fortress of Solitude, commune with Jor-El (Marlon Brando,
in unused footage from an earlier Superman film), and steal
away with some magic crystals, the purpose of which have something
to do with taking over the world. (As usual with this kind
of film, the bad guy’s ultimate goal is lost in a barrage
of high-tech gimmickry.)
While Superman’s first reentry into society, which involves
preventing a supersonic jet from nose-diving onto the infield
of a Major League ballgame, is fun and spectacular, the rest
of the movie lacks that Saturday-matinee thrill. Singer, and
screenwriters Michael Dougherty and Dan Harris, seem much
more focused on the inner workings of the Man in Tights, to
the extent that many Christlike analogies are tossed about.
Jor-El says something like, “I so love the world that I’m
sending my only son to save it,” and Superman himself floats
through space suspended in a pose evocative of the crucifixion.
Superman counters Lois’ Pulitzer Prize-winning theory by informing
her that he hears everything, all the suffering endured by
mankind—suffering that he apparently purports to heal by thwarting
random bank robberies and detouring a few errant vehicles
from the paths of innocent bystanders. In this age of global
warming, isn’t there an oncoming tidal wave or something that
could let us see Superman do his stuff?
Singer’s Metropolis is a thing of beauty, a weird but enjoyable
pastiche of the classic and identifiable, such as the sepia-toned,
1930s-ish offices of the Daily Planet and the main
players’ His Girl Friday-type wardrobes. The look is
right, which is why we feel all the more the lack of the other
aspects of Superman Returns. Spacey is given nothing
much to do other than snarl with relish on words like “kryptonite,”
and Bosworth looks insignificant, not at all the picture of
a successful working mother (although she’s much better than
Katie Holmes was as a reporter in her last film).
The movie has one truly surprising scene, which is then largely
forgotten. In fact, throughout Superman Returns, one
can’t help but brainstorm “Oh, wouldn’t it be great if such
and such happened,” only to have countless such opportunities
fall by the wayside. Singer’s vision, such as it is, seems
to be all about the veneration of a late-1970s pop film, so
small matters like plot development and suspense building
just aren’t the point. Sadly, the audience can’t feel the
same way, making Superman Returns an oddly empty and
depressing experience.
Evil
Is Good
The
Devil Wears Prada
Directed
by David Frankel
Miranda Priestly is the kind of character you love to hate.
Cruel, vain, imperious and able to terrify her minions with
the most seemingly simple request, Miranda rules every facet
of work at Runway, a fashion monthly, with the serene
entitlement of a 16th-century monarch who has just sentenced
some poor schmuck to be hanged, drawn and quartered. And,
unlike Elizabeth I of England, you get the impression that
the screams of the tortured, condemned soul would not distract
the haughty Ms. Priestly from matching the appropriate belt
with the appropriate Calvin Klein skirt. Meryl Streep has
given us this movie monster, and it’s the comic performance—hell,
performance—of the year (so far).
Based on the successful, based-on-the-real-thing novel of
the same title, The Devil Wears Prada takes the audience
into the dark soul of the multibillion-dollar fashion industry.
And, as long as the action centers on fashionistas, the film
is hugely entertaining; filled with outsized characters and
cutthroat competition, Prada brings a level of genuine
appreciation for such an apparently ridiculous world. (While,
at the same time, crapping all over it. More about that in
a minute.)
There’s another character in the film, too: Andy Sachs (Anne
Hathaway), a fresh-faced, young journalism-school graduate
arrived in the big bad city of New York from the Midwest with
quaint dreams of magazine-writing glory. Andy applies for
an assistant’s job at Runway without having any idea
of the rag’s importance—or who Miranda is. Hapless and, seemingly,
hopeless, it’s a pleasure to watch Andy bloom in the job,
and beat out her ruthless competition.
Aside from Streep and Hathaway, kudos also to Emily Blunt
(as Andy’s desperate, coldhearted competition), Stanley Tucci
(as the requisite gay editor who helps Andy with the whole
“getting dressed” thing) and Simon Baker (as a successful
journalist out to steal Andy from her boyfriend).
The film’s main flaw is the smugly sanctimonious way Andy’s
non-fashion-world life is presented. Her “real” friends, including
Entourage‘s Adrian Grenier as the too-nice, too-pretty
boyfriend and Rent’s Tracie Thoms as a bohemian art-world
pal, exist only to exude sincerity—and wag their fingers at
Andy for being a sellout.
Please. Being poor and starting at the bottom in Manhattan
does not breed sincerity. If anything, her friends would be
jealous that Andy is excelling at the opportunity of a lifetime,
and getting a lot of sweet freebies. The boyfriend (and company)
are annoying because they’re not only around to make Andy
feel bad, but, crucially, the audience feel good: “Yes, heartland
America, your plain-Jane, unglamorous lives are more meaningful
than those of these trivial fools for fashion.”
Please, again. This is the oldest, cheapest Hollywood flattery
there is. It’s especially irritating because the fashion world
is such an easy target, with its anti-heartland types—i.e.,
gays and supermodels—and “silly” clothes.
It’s not enough to spoil the fun, however. (Yep, Streep’s
performance is that towering.) Andy may be feeling all pure
and righteous and noble for eventually taking a low-pay reporter’s
job at an alt-weekly newspaper a la The Village Voice,
but that dazed, dazzled, worshipful look she gives Miranda
in the film’s final scene speaks to the real truth at the
heart of The Devil Wears Prada.
—Shawn
Stone
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