Irony Man: Why Action Scenes Are Hurting Superhero Movies

The idea that you have to sit through mediocre “character development” to get to the combat fireworks is common to action films, but the first two “Iron Man”s inverted the genre’s traditional appeal: viewers slogged through unexceptional set-pieces to watch Downey be a smart-ass, enabled by capable actors on the same comic page. That was a semi-happy accident, a result of the movies moving into production without a locked script, as multiple actors confirmed; the resulting improv sessions wore their spontaneity transparently. The action sequences had to be figured out before-hand — CGI takes time — but they’re the least memorable components of the first two installments.

This method of construction isn’t unfamiliar: when Jackie Chan made “Police Story” in 1985, he conceived his desired martial arts sequences first, then had the screenwriter come up with a framework that could plausibly get him from one to another. Same process, different outcome: in the “Iron Man”‘s, you came for the comedy and put up with the action filler. With the exception of Jeff Bridges strapping on his gigantic-robot-villain suit at the end of the first film and Mickey Rourke causing racetrack havoc at the start of the second, it’s hard for me to remember any significant mayhem from the first two installments; the showdowns basically look like outtakes from “The Rocketeer.”

That’s no longer the case in “Iron Man 3,” whose plot that functions in ways that a screenwriting teacher would approve: there’s a prologue establishing (“planting”) characters that’ll re-emerge as villains, a first act establishing Tony “Iron Man” Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) is suffering from post-”Avengers” anxiety attacks (a challenge to be overcome, though it’s forgotten halfway through), and a midway plot twist that simultaneously changes everything you thought about the villain while still keeping the movie on course towards an orgy of third-act CGI gasoline explosions and neatly resolved plot arcs.

Also check out: Our review of “Iron Man 3?

This isn’t to say that the first two films are an unqualified triumph (or that this new installment is suffocatingly mapped-out), but their comic sequences are surprisingly loose and delightful for overbudgeted superhero movies. Christian Bale’s Batman has angst, Tobey Maguire’s Spider-Man has some really serious anxiety issues (so his tentative delivery suggests), but Robert Downey Jr.’s topspin on every piece of dialogue is predictable without lapsing into diminishing returns. The memory I hold onto from “Iron Man 2? is Downey and co-star Don Cheadle killing time until the ultra-big final showdown by cracking wise about who’s the big gun (Downey: “You have a big gun. You are not ‘the big gun.’”) This isn’t exactly Howard Hawks, but it’s closer to “Hatari!” than anything in recent tentpole history: narrative in the back, party up front.

It’s worth noting that this unintentional jaggedness went beyond production or elements director Jon Favreau could control. Mickey Rourke, for example, said that his “Iron Man 2? villain was conspicuously absent from much of the movie in which he’s ostensibly a major threat because “Favreau didn’t call the shots” and Marvel Comics cut his part. There’s no reason not to believe Rourke, since big summer blockbusters tend to work on a committee-times-ten basis. Accidental messiness is a welcome by-product of production turmoil, at least if you’re one of the perverse few who (like me) enjoys “Spider-Man 3,” in which Sam Raimi channelled his frustration with a top-heavy third installment spiraling out of control by shooting bizarro musical numbers or James Franco painting, resulting in an incoherent work with endearingly inexplicably moments attributable only to eccentric humanity.

This weirdness is a double-edged sword. “Spider-Man 3? and “Iron Man 2? are frustrated works that could have, at one time, hung together as coherent dramas, but instead come off as a series of comic tangents interrupted by obligatory, grudgingly executed action sequences. “Iron Man 2? went so poorly that Favreau simply didn’t return for another directorial round, but he returns to reprise his role as Tony Stark’s former bodyguard Happy Hogan. The big joke here is that Happy’s now in charge of security at Stark Industries, and he’s constantly worried about threats to everyone’s safety. The human element “in human resources is our biggest weakness,” he says, and he’s not joking, a statement that could double as the studio’s own nightmares about the franchise: Downey’s too distinctive a performer to replace (though Cheadle replaced Terrence Howard without too many complaints), but apparently Favreau can be swapped out no problem.

Also check out: Changing Suits: How “Iron Man 3? finally fixes superhero movies.

[People who are way too worried about SPOILERS for things that happen in the first 20 minutes may want to check out at this point.] Happy’s subsequently seriously injured in an explosion and rendered catatonic for the bulk of the narrative — as neat an in-joke as any about being forced to watch someone else take control of the franchise he helped build. (Tony’s nightmares about New York work as a similar in-joke, in which the centerpiece of one franchise is tormented by memories of anchoring a totally different blockbuster.) Where former actor Favreau was good with helping organize riffing and keeping a potentially unwieldy production on track, new co-writer/director Shane Black melds the particular sense of humor he established himself with in “Lethal Weapon” and “The Last Boy Scout” with a firm sense of structural cause-and-effect.

The trade-off is that the film, eventually, has to shut up and explode: the now-planned-out riffing of the first half ceases as the generic action setpieces take over. (The first two are memorable, the rest increasingly watery; the finale’s really close to that of the recent “A-Team” movie, which isn’t a good thing.) These are the breaks: you can have unplanned human spontaneity without memorable action sequences, or you can have too many of the latter and too little of the former.

Categories: Features

Tags: Iron Man 3, Jon favreau, Marvel, Op-ed, Robert downey jr., Superhero Movies, Vadim Rizov

Changing Suits: How ‘Iron Man 3′ Finally Fixes Superhero Movies

The problem with superhero movies, broadly speaking, is that they struggle to convey a sense of balance. This is because every superhero film needs to establish two contradictory things simultaneously: on the one hand, in order to justify the classical modifier, the hero of the film must be depicted as at least nominally “super”, which is to say somehow exceptionally proficient and powerful. But on the other hand, in order to maintain some vaguely plausible illusion of suspense, the hero of the film must also be depicted as vulnerable, which is to say credibly at risk of losing to whomever is defined as the principal threat. An audience wants to feel impressed by a hero’s power but concerned that their power may be overcome, and what this means from a filmmaking perspective is that a superhero has to seem both indomitable and fragile at the same time.

I used to complain that I could never take the second and third “Matrix” films seriously, not only for the obvious reasons, but for the simple fact that they reject the rules of their predecessor. At the end of “The Matrix”, Neo has finally awakened to the reality around him and in doing so has become The One, a transformation which various characters have spent the better part of two hours explaining will make him essentially invincible. But it’s a hard to write a sequel to action movie, let alone two sequels, when you’ve just made your protagonist impervious to physical harm, which left the Wachowskis with two choices: either rob the hero of his powers at the outset (a colleague calls this “Metroiding”) or introduce new antagonists whose own powers up the ante, sort of a deus ex machina in reverse. The Wachowskis went with the latter option, which is why, in the first moments of “The Matrix Reloaded”, it’s explained that, oh right, the agents are new and improved, and also, oh yeah, we forgot to mention this but there are also evil programs roaming about with just enough power to be a believable threat, and I guess we just didn’t see them in the first film because…something.

Though it’s more pronounced in the “Matrix” sequels, this is a problem that plagues superhero franchises—extending past comic book heroes to cover even the last few Bond movies—inherent from their inception and increasingly difficult to write around as the follow-ups pile on. Over the last several years, it seems as though Hollywood screenwriters have devised a new approach to the superhero strength problem, one as stupefyingly simplistic as it is mildly effective: rather than tidily reconciling a hero’s omnipotence with the looming threat of the hour, these films opt to beat their supermen into the ground early, making the central dramatic tension a case of reconstitution. Slant Magazine’s John Semley, writing about the recent prime example of “Skyfall”, calls this the “tear-the-hero-down-that-he-may-rise” narrative, an arc that neatly writes film-school musts like crisis, trauma and redemption into the prefab dramatic folds, addressing the issue of too much power by sidestepping it entirely. And so we are now treated to endless bouts of broken-warrior syndrome: “The Dark Knight Rises” takes its lead out of the picture with a broken back for half the running time, “Skyfall” nearly kills its man of action in the first five minutes, “Thor” made its Nordic god human, and so on. Taking his power when at 100% for granted, the question no longer becomes “will our hero prevail?”, but the marginally distinguishable “will our hero become a hero again?”

What’s irritating about these narratives—and I trust everyone agrees that the preeminent example remains “Spider-man 2”, which perhaps inadvertently kick-started the trend—is that, even if they manage to be dramatically compelling, they do so by effectively cheating the system. By making the crisis the hero’s temporary lack of power, they’re essentially proposing that the hero’s victory is guaranteed once their power has been restored; in other words these movies are making the task of creating an interesting conflict for an ordinary superhero even harder. This occurs through admission: a film like “The Dark Knight Rises” basically shrugs and says, look, if Batman were kicking around Gotham right now he wouldn’t let Bane get away with any of this, so in order for all of that to go down we’re just going to relegate him to a dungeon halfway across the world with a broken back. And once the Dark Knight inevitably Rises, the dynamic is restored: he handily defeats Bane and, after a few last-minute twists, stops the plot to destroy Gotham City.

Also check out: Our “Iron Man 3? review

From a conceptual standpoint, no superhero franchise has a harder time establishing balance than the “Iron Man” films. Part of the problem is that Iron Man only qualifies as a super at all when he rests comfortably inside that cherry-red suit—the man side of the equation, though charming, isn’t particularly capable on the battlefield—which, once donned, allows him to shoot rockets and lasers and break the sound barrier and generally just own. The only interesting conflicts in the first two “Iron Man” films, and the only interesting Iron Man-related conflicts in “The Avengers”, related to whether or not Iron Man was actually Iron Man. The thinking went thusly: Tony Stark is useless (and therefore boring to watch in a fight) and Iron Man is invincible (and therefore boring to watch in a fight), so the only way to make fight scenes interesting to devise increasingly complicated ways to briefly prevent Tony Stark from finding and getting into his suit. “Iron Man 2”, especially, never tired of obstructing the process for the sake of strained excitement: its most memorable setpiece, in which Mickey Rourke interrupted a bit of Nascar, was nothing more than ten minutes of watching Stark evade death until his wife and chauffeur could show up and get him dressed.

SOME “IRON MAN 3? SPOILERS FOLLOW.

“Iron Man Three”, rather than simply follow suit (and unsuit), reconceives the character, and in doing so becomes perhaps the first superhero film in years to effectively reconcile our sense of power with our concern for danger. The importance of getting this one thing right can’t be overstated: it fundamentally changes the nature of the franchise, transforming it from a low-stakes action film about a smarmy millionaire and his untouchable toy to a dynamic, well-balanced film about an innovative engineer and his problem-solving abilities. The genius conceit of “Iron Man Three”, as simple as it sounds, is that it reimagines Tony Stark as the superhero, not Iron Man; the suit becomes simply one tool of many in a creative technician’s arsenal, as useful as it is utterly disposable. And what’s remarkable is that not only is the film aware of this reconfiguration, it actively works the reconfiguration into the narrative fabric of the film: this is a film that’s actually about a man recognizing that he doesn’t need expensive future-tech to be heroic and to save the day. It’s about a man realizing his true potential through ingenuity and perseverance—not some vain attempt at “rebuilding” a hero but building a new one from the ground up.

One of the most striking things about “Iron Man Three” is its central visual motif, one very much in keeping with its major themes: breakdown and failure hang over everything, disrupting plans, wiping out public spaces, making it impossible to get from point A to point B. Director Shane Black—who’s written these kinds of film-wide conceptual girders before, to similar effect—charts a course not from breakdown to perfection but from breakdown to nothing, its arc building not so much to an improved model as to a rejection of the model altogether. This plays out a bit like Brad Bird’s “Mission Impossible 4”, which also used technical failures as a motif; but where Bird employed malfunction as a kind of running gag, played always for laughs, “Iron Man Three” takes its constant defects much more seriously, viewing them as much a manifestation of internal crisis as a lack of care or maintenance. The point of the film is that Stark has to cope without: he has to overcome his foes without relying on the invincibility of his suit, but he also, more importantly, has to understand that the suit itself has been a crutch.

And even in the most superficial sense, the motif proves enormously fun to watch: we’re so accustomed to seeing Stark dodge foes until his suit becomes available (at which point he swats threats down like flies) that finding him fend for himself with what he has at his disposal is every bit as refreshing it as it is amusing. The film still has recourse to get Stark suited up, but the important distinction is that he’s rarely fully suited (and only ever momentarily): the tech is always failing, being dismantled, coming together in bits and pieces. At one point he fights a helicopter brigade without flight or combat power, and so he downs one with a carefully shoved grand piano; later he takes on a group of gunmen with only his right leg and left hand suited, and he flies by spinning in an impromptu corkscrew. It’s the hero as makeshift-super, his powers cobbled together and unwieldy.

One of the most spectacular setpieces in the film is one of its most low-key: Stark is facing off against a seemingly invincible woman in a small-town diner, ducking punches while handcuffed, when he’s forced to hot-wire homemade explosives out of a microwave and a set of metal dog tags. We’re made aware that Tony Stark was never just an ordinary guy in a powerful suit: he’s an exceptional guy in a suit of his own design and creation, and his capacity to make something like Iron Man is not only what defines his character, it’s what makes that character worth watching.

Categories: Features

Tags: Calum Marsh, Iron Man 3, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Shane Black, Superhero Movies

When, Why, and How Continuity in Superhero Franchises Matters

If a comic book has been running for a few decades, it’s inevitable that its continuity and mythology is a big, tangled mess. Anyone who denies this is deluded, and has never noticed the eye rolls, the scoffs, or the yawns as they try to explain the twists and turns of Thor, Batman, or Hawkeye. When a big studio adapts a comic book character to the big screen, it’s necessary to cherry pick through their saga, to thread in the elements that work and scrap the ones that don’t. It’s the benefit of having decades of continuity — you have hindsight and the ability to toss the awful stories that seemed so cool in 1992.

But often, studios just take it too far. There’s a reason these characters and their basic storylines — Superman is from Krypton, Joe Chill killed Batman’s parents, Magneto is a Holocaust survivor — have endured so long. They’re simple. They’re good. The fundamental core is sympathetic. Of course Batman becomes a vigilante. Who wouldn’t? Superman will never truly be of Earth, yet he protects it unfailingly. Magneto’s great tragedy is to be as intolerant as those who put him in a concentration camp. And so on. People respond to those very basic threads, and changing them out of ignorance or spite is a surefire way to kill your franchise and alienate the fanbase.

The most obvious and damning example is the way Fox has handled its Marvel franchises, particularly the X-Men, and its most popular member, Wolverine. (Yes, I rail about these characters a lot. But they are my favorites!) Now, Bryan Singer’s films are good. They certainly get to who the heart of who and what the X-Men are, which is always the heart of any good comic adaptation. But they could have been better had they not gleefully rearranged continuity and characters in ways that shortchanged any potential sequels.

The first X-Men film shouldn’t have been The Tale of Wolverine. It should have been the tale of how Cyclops, Jean Grey, Storm, Iceman, Angel, and Beast were recruited by Professor Charles Xavier, and transformed into the X-Men. In short, it should have been what X-Men: First Class was, except with the classic lineup, and Wolverine thrown in for color and ticket sales. (His crude introduction to the X-Men is still perfect. He just shouldn’t have been the focus.) The first three films could have been the Dark Phoenix saga, and ended with the death of Jean Grey, and the arrival of Kitty Pryde, who will always be Wolverine’s true teenage sidekick. Other characters, such as Colossus, Rogue (a proper adult, not a becloaked teenager), Gambit, Nightcrawler, and Emma Frost could have been folded in. The X-Men are a constantly fluctuating team. They are a franchise that could constantly refresh itself. Even established team members could be gently taken out (they’ve all left the team at one time or another) and replaced with someone new. With those new characters come new storylines. Loyalty to the source  is a smart move when that source is still running and selling well. It’s a free template to a tentpole.

But hey, the movies are what they are. They have their fans and their detractors. For better or worse, they have forged their own continuity and mythology. Comic books know all about reboots and retcons, and readers can accept a teenage Rogue, a dead Cyclops, and an Emma Frost who is now too old to ever get it on with Scott Summers. It’s OK. We can cope. But Fox couldn’t even maintain that internal mythology as evidenced by the poor Old Canucklehead.

Wolverine is the textbook example of how and why continuity matters within a superhero franchise. Logan is introduced to us in the wilds of Canada, sans memory and all purpose. X2 gives us — and him — a bit of backstory. We see him experimented on, injected with adamantium, and horrified at the bloodstreaked claws that have materialized out of his hands. The implication is that the procedure was so traumatizing that he could not — or would not — remember anything before it. Wolverine decides he doesn’t want to know anymore, and leaves it at that.

But fans couldn’t leave it at that. (They never could with Wolverine.) Neither can a studio longing to spin-off this most popular and marketable of mutants. So they decide to give him a prequel/origin story. This should be the easiest job in the world since there’s a tidy template laid out in X2, and any holes can be filled by what Wolverine’s long and exhausting comic run has established. Or, you could throw it all out the window, and spin a story of a mutant who happily volunteers to be injected with adamantium and has a grand time playing with his claws until someone shoots him with an Amnesia Bullet. It doesn’t match a single thing that came before, but who cares? No one but unwashed nerds will remember, and Hugh Jackman is shirtless, so shut up. (That can’t excuse all sins, Fox.) None of that even touches that Sabretooth is, inexplicably, two different characters (one a mute brute, the other Liev Schreiber) and that it will be hard to explain how Deadpool grew his lips and head back if he gets his own movie.

There is a persistent belief that your average moviegoer won’t care about any of this. But all moviegoers appreciate logic in their franchises. They will remember — because Fox will, in self-destructive pique, remind them with a Wolverine and Sabretooth cameo — that Deadpool died in X-Men Origins: Wolverine. The Comic Book Guy who snidely informs them of a postcredit scene will get a blank look, an eye roll, and a “This is why I hate comic book movies. It’s so confusing, and they just do whatever they want!” that translates into diminishing box-office returns.

Fox is the easy example, but every studio has done it. Sony’s The Amazing Spider-Man has a hard road to climb once audiences realize this is a new Peter Parker, discovering his superpowers all over again, and that the previous three films no longer count. Warner Bros. is fervently hoping that people don’t show up to Zack Snyder’s Superman waiting for him to fly the friendly skies with his son, Superboy. If Fox decides to make X-Men 4, audiences are going to be very confused as to whether it’s the “young ones” or “the old ones,” and how all those Wolverine films fit in. Marvel has to wrestle with what happened to the previous Hulks, and why he is now Mark Ruffalo. No one wants to have to research before they see a movie, and they shouldn’t have to. Each movie should stand alone, but each movie should reward the people who have turned up for each and every installment. Characters should have a consistent backstory that directly affects how they’ll react to events in this chapter. It’s Storytelling 101, and absolutely crucial when you’re dealing with the bright and outlandish characters of the comic page.

Ironically, this is the exact plight that faces your average Joe or Jane if they decide to visit a comic shop and pluck a random issue from the rack. The only difference is that they can pick up a trade collection, and get a coherent and satisfying string of tales. So far, they can’t do the same with a movie trilogy because those characters are always yanked out of their arc in favor of a new cast, crew, and storyline.

Obviously, continuity and canon shouldn’t get in the way of a good story. (If we stuck to Wolverine to the bloody end, we’d end up with Daken,  and no one wants that.) But continuity matters to a coherent and affecting cinematic franchise. It’s how fans, new and nerdy, become invested in the characters and their dire predicaments. Marvel and DC could not have become successful serializers without that essential rule, even if they do bend it until it almost breaks, and it’s no different with their cinematic counterparts. If the pieces don’t fit together, no one cares. Looking out at the current superhero landscape, with its rebooted and disjointed franchises, it’s hard to know how much longer they will.