The Avengers (Joss Whedon, 2012)

Let's get a couple of things out of the way. The Avengers opens on such a hollow note that its entire first act struggles to find any kind of footing at all. Trapped between a need for some basic exposition and a total disregard for anyone foolish enough to wade into this film without having seen its multiple-franchise foundations, The Avengers thus has nothing for anyone as it slowly, ever so slowly, brings together its collection of superheroes. And though I've never previously bought the charge that Joss Whedon is a smug writer, I nearly blushed at the self-satisfaction in some early exchanges and setups, so obvious and fan-massaging that their cynicism threatened to divorce me entirely from what I hoped would be Whedon's big break. Maybe all that trash-talking he'd done over the years for those who "misread" or "mishandled" his early film scripts was just a smokescreen for a writer whose considerable gift for television writing simply didn't translate to the more concise storytelling of cinema.

Then, something happened that has not occurred in any of the Marvel films leading up to this blowout: the movie kept getting better. Most of the previous films started with intriguing concepts and approaches before fizzling out in half-baked, perfunctorily executed action romps that served only to set up the chess pieces for this picture. Even Captain America, easily the best of the Marvel Studios franchise starters, dipped a bit in the middle, though it differs from its peers in that it finished strong where movies like Iron Man, Thor and The Incredible Hulk ended on lame notes. But The Avengers swaps the usual Marvel dynamic, moving out of a dull, lazy setup into something clever, well-observed and, ultimately, thrilling. By the time everything fell into place, my laundry list of complaints evaporated in the pure rush of Whedon's ambition.

The first act suffers for the unavoidably arbitrary nature of the events that bring Marvel's heroes together. When Loki (Tom Hiddleston) materializes out of his deep-space exile in a S.H.I.E.L.D. base on Earth, he instantly starts wreaking havoc and steals the Tesseract, that glowing blue cube that factored so prominently in Thor and Captain America. As MacGuffins go, the Tesseract isn't engaging or broadly explained enough for the severity placed on it to work, and even when Loki possesses S.H.I.E.L.D. agents (including Jeremy Renner's Clint "Hawkeye" Barton) and levels the secret, hi-tech facility, the stakes are so unclear that the worry in Nick Fury's (Samuel L. Jackson) face doesn't register.

But Fury cannot sufficiently stress the danger the world faces and sets about recruiting all the superheroes he met in those post-credits stingers in past Marvel films. Arduously, the film comes to each of these heroes—Tony "Iron Man"Stark (Robert Downey, Jr.), Bruce "Hulk" Banner (Mark Ruffalo, replacing Ed Norton), Steve "Captain America" Rogers (Chris Evans), Thor (Chris Hemsworth), and Natasha "Black Widow" Romanoff (Scarlett Johansson)—individually, rehashing their personalities and backstories before bringing them together. These scenes drag along with dead weight, giving the impression that Loki could have vaporized the planet in the time it takes the movie to even put these people in the same room, much less in a team.

Once Whedon does put all these larger-than-life personalities in the same shot, however, he displays a canny ability to subvert expectations for immediate, boisterous action. Whedon's television programs are filled with makeshift, uncertainly functioning families brimming with tension and different goals, and he compounds that spiky energy with these superpowered people. The first great action sequence involving the heroes is among each other, Iron Man and Thor trading blows as their target, Loki, looks on with a grin. And when they bring Loki bound to a flying aircraft carrier serving as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s mobile headquarters, the feeling that something horrible is about to happen is omnipresent.

This middle section allows Whedon to stretch out with his actors and, having moved past the flippant, insider-joke-laden dialogue of the start, truly delve into the characters. In a setup reminiscent of the Angelus arc in Angel's fourth season, S.H.I.E.L.D. puts Loki in a cage, limiting his physical movement and maximizing his psychological warfare. Hiddleston lets every jab and uncomfortable insight flick off his tongue on hot spittle, getting into the heroes' heads. My favorite scene of the film pits Loki against Black Widow, inverting Hiddleston's charm into frightening invective until Whedon pulls the rug out from underneath the moment in fantastically funny fashion.

Whedon's sarcastic humor and his gift for writing powerful but flawed characters suits him perfectly to Stark and Banner. Downey coasted in Iron Man 2, lazily delivering arrogant one-liners clearly written to capture the spontaneous, unexpected magic he brought to Stark. Here, though, he has better barbs, and better characters to square off against, bouncing off Captain America's uptight obsolescence and curiously prodding Banner in the hopes of seeing him transform. In Whedon's hands, Stark is no longer celebrated for his stand-offish, cocky nature but rightly seen as the insufferable, popular kid in high school. (Even the recycling of AC/DC's "Shoot to Thrill" from Iron Man 2 feels more like a jab at Stark's predictable egomania than a convenience of rights issues.) Yet it's also Whedon who gets the first true bit of humanity and empathy out of the billionaire genius, first in his kinship with Banner and then in response to an event that galvanizes the whole cast.

Ruffalo wastes no time establishing himself as the greatest Bruce Banner yet. His Banner has a perpetually remorseful, embarrassed look, asking others whether they know about him in the resigned but bashful way of a man who is used to having to admit a terrible secret to strangers but can never get used to the shame of the admission itself. He speaks slowly and deliberately, projecting a neutral energy that finds an anxious middle-ground between calm and angry. Even the animation for the Hulk is superb, using motion-capture and nuanced CGI to capture Ruffalo's sad eyes in the lumbering green behemoth. Thor and Captain America, incorruptible idealists, fare less well, as Whedon would need even more than the film's already-bloated running time to break down their two-dimensional goodness. Still, Evans at least gets to flex his acting chops with a constant, subtle discomfort befitting a man out of his time. I hope the next Captain America film gives Evans a meatier role to explore in the modern era.

The final act is at once irritating thanks to Whedon's clumsy action directing and exhilarating for how well he corrals everyone into the racket of Manhattan being torn apart by the Avengers and Loki's alien army. Spatial geography in the shots is incomprehensible, yet the larger image of the Hulk clobbering soldiers over there, Hawkeye picking off targets with casual precision, Captain America and Black Widow holding down the ground level et al. is easily traceable. The sheer ambition of the climactic sequence also helps, the tearing apart of a city reminiscent of a Michael Bay film but coordinated to give more heft to the characters and, generally speaking, to not delight in the wanton destruction. As thrilling as the sight of the Hulk punching some massive flying beast is, there's an urgency to end this chaos as quickly as possible counter to Bay's basking in pandemonium. Whedon is clearly having fun, but the climax works less as a dumb showcase for (admittedly great) special effects than as the throughline for these characters, their powers and their relationships to each other.

That idiosyncratic touch, a preference for the actual characters over the spectacle, doesn't redeem the film's many flaws of pacing, direction, and the occasional bit of dodgy dialogue. But it does it at least offset them, offering a fresh take on the Marvel formula that already feels set in stone after only a few years of dedicated work in setting up this mega-tent pole. Were I to simply look at the film on an isolate, critical level, I'd have to conclude that it was a failure. It languishes in a first act it does not even attempt to make interesting or coherent, then moves past that vital second-act inner conflict between the heroes too quickly, and finally flirts with mindless action in a way Whedon never has before. But like the Avengers themselves, the film works as a whole in a way it doesn't when contrasting individual elements. In fact, that tension among its unwieldy elements is part of the movie's charm, making it even more exciting when everything somehow comes together in a satisfactory way. Whedon may succumb to the fad of frenetic editing and jumbled close-ups on action, but I can think of few other filmmakers who could have made a film about a collection of Earth's greatest heroes and maintained focus so thoroughly on the way that team operated.

Midnight in Paris (Woody Allen, 2011)

The opening shots of Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris show the titular city from the perspective of a tourist, focusing on landmarks as tour groups walk and ride ferries around town. Occasionally, he spares brief glimpses of back alleys occupied by locals who know how to avoid the shuffling guests. Meanwhile, Allen lays French-flavored jazz, a Parisien take on American music, over such shots. He even literalizes the other part of the title by spreading the montage over the course of a day from sunrise to starless night, watching the blossom of the City of Light as dim interior lights grow into the full dazzle of Paris after dark. Despite the simplicity of Allen's static montage, he conveys a number of important ideas with the first moments: we do not see the Paris of those who live there but of tourists who visit it, and the sight of centuries-old landmarks looming over modern urban bustle shows the past mingling with the present.

That juxtaposition magnifies as Allen follows Gil (Owen Wilson), a successful hack screenwriter who looks to Paris for inspiration for his novel. Drunkenly wandering Paris one night while his fiancée (Rachel McAdams) dances with friends, Gil suddenly finds himself sucked into an old car after midnight, ending up amongst flappers, ex-pats and, most importantly, a host of legendary artists who dwelt in the city in the 1920s.

It's the dream of any creatively aspiring person, the chance to hang out with Hemingway or the Fitzgeralds, to get a book proofread by Gertrude Stein or judge a painting by Picasso. For Gil, whose book concerns a man running a nostalgia shop, the chance to walk around the past and interact with it is so wonderful only someone as capable of pure glee as Owen Wilson could pull it off.

Wilson gets a lot of flak, but I like him and can think of few other actors better suited to the role of Gil. Wilson has a voice that manages to convey simultaneous doe-eyed innocence and arrogant smarm, perfect for the insecure but ambitious writer. Gil walks around Paris, in both the modern day and the '20s, with a look of childlike wonder and joy on his face, but he's also cynical about his talents and bitterly antagonistic to Paul (Michael Sheen), Inez's uncomfortably close male friend and an officious fool who impresses others with his pontifications even after someone points out he's actually wrong about Rodin's mistress or the names of artists who designed and decorated Versailles.

Paul's insufferable lectures, all of which revolve around obvious tourist traps despite his image of being at one with French culture, sap all the fun from Paris, and even if Gil didn't get to walk around with the Lost Generation, one can hardly blame him for ducking away to the streets to avoid the man.

In a summer already marked by nostalgia in the form of Super 8 and, indirectly, the historical appropriations of X-Men: First Class and, soon, Captain America*, Allen's film is bizarrely attuned to the current mood. To be sure, it's undeniable he has his own fun with past literary and artistic figures. Ernest Hemingway (Corey Stoll) speaks the way the author's prose reads: brutal, aggressive, restless. Stoll looks like he dabbed absinthe on his neck as makeshift cologne, and when he screams, "WHO WANTS TO FIGHT?!" I can't imagine what clueless fool would take him up on it. Kathy Bates amusingly plays Gertrude Stein as a sort of Mother Goose for the artistic community in Paris, coaching the artists but also comforting them when mistresses leave.

After a time, I started registering the historical figure before the actor. Before Adrien Brody even said a word, before I even recognized him, I thought "There's Dali!" Tom Hiddleston and Alison Pill nail F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Hiddleston conveying the pain of his wife's tumult vying with his undying love for her and Pill communicating Zelda's schizophrenia long before it manifests. I kept waiting for the terrible impression to come along, the inevitable clunker of a performance that befalls all films where a cast has to deal with a huge number of real and significant figures. I kept waiting for the Condoleeza Rice from W. or the Churchill from The King's Speech. But Allen cast this movie impeccably: not only does everyone fit the part (almost uncannily so) but they all try to genuinely sound and act like some aspect of that person.

Yet the most catching character in the film is a mistress by the name of Adriana, forgotten by time but inspiring to a number of painters who changed that medium's landscape. From the moment the camera first settles on Marion Cotillard, she feels more like a muse than anyone to appear in a Woody Allen film, even Diane Keaton. That's not to say she's better, of course, but the camera almost physically reacts whenever she's on-screen. The frame seems to stop cold when she comes into it, frozen in first-sight love and intimidation of her beauty. It's like Allen is constantly surprised to run into her, conveying his trademark fluster through the lens as the camera tries to breathlessly apologize for stumbling upon her. And when she good-naturedly smiles at this flushed infatuation, the camera nearly swoons as if about to pass out. Cotillard could almost get away with saying nothing at all, but thank God she does, and her performance mingles so well with her presence that when the film begins to turn around her axis, the shift does not feel so seismic.

Adriana's own infatuation with a past time, La Belle Époque, brings out a more serious idea for Allen's whimsical tour of Paris past and present. He delights in roaming among artistic figures and even has fun with them—Gil pitches Luis Buñuel on The Exterminating Angel, only for the surrealist to be wholly unable to grasp why people couldn't leave a room—but he slowly brings out the idea that everyone pines for a Golden Age that is hardly considered such by those who lived in that time. One of the few insightful things Paul says, albeit condescendingly, is "Nostalgia is denial, denial of the painful present." Gil gradually comes to realize this, remarking to Adriana, "Maybe the present is a little unsatisfying because life is a little unsatisfying."

As such, Midnight in Paris ultimately critiques the wave of nostalgia floating through recent films, and even Allen's own The Purple Rose of Cairo. Gags of the past bleeding into present and vice-versa (would things have been different for Scott and Zelda if she'd been able to procure Valium?) offer visible comedy to go with the bouncing, witty script. At last, however, Allen comes to the conclusion that choosing to live in an idealized vision of someone else's existence is a hollow alternative to making one's own present into the best it can possibly be. There are suggestions of Allen identifying with Gil, who feels screenwriting is a lesser talent and yearns to be considered a literary talent, but Allen at last seems to be lightening up about his lot, and it shows in this film. Inez and her family are thinly written Republican caricatures, but Allen just wants an uncomplicated laugh. (Besides, who can afford to vacation in France these days except Hollywood liberals and conservative businessmen insulated against the economy?) I would still have liked more dimension in Inez and her family, however; at a certain point, the caricatures border on the sexist.

Nevertheless, it's the sober, positive conclusion the dour Allen comes to through the comedy and whimsy that makes Midnight in Paris truly deserving of the hype it's received. While this line may be tossed out with each new Allen feature, the film may rank someday among the director's finest. How strange it is that Allen, once one of those directors synonymous with a city, has achieved his greatest success in old age as a transient, his finest late-career work always forcing him out of his comfort zone. But then, at times he seems a better fit for Europe than even his dear Manhattan.


*Even, to an extent, The Tree of Life operates through nostalgia for a time period and setting that is not that of most of its audience.

Thor (Kenneth Branagh, 2011)

For all its flaws, Tim Burton's original Batman stands above nearly any other first entry in a superhero franchise for one simple reason: it did not waste time with an origin story. Burton had the decency to assume that a defining pop culture icon would be well-known enough even to the casual viewer that spending any length of time on the backstory would take away from getting a new plot underway.

Thor, the first new Marvel franchise of the summer in advance of next year's megablockbuster The Avengers, spends the whole of its two hours repetitively establishing a character who should be familiar to anyone who went had a few mythology overviews in a history class. For this comic book version of the Norse god of thunder is nothing more than a streamlined, Disneyfied version of the actual Norse myths. When scientist Erik Selvig (Stellan Skarsgård) picks up an illustrated tome of Norse mythology later in the film, I hoped in vain that this would be the filmmakers' way of acknowledging that they're adding nothing to that origin and moving on. Wishful thinking.

Kenneth Branagh awkwardly handles the first 30 minutes of the film: opening on Earth with a group of astrophysicists (Natalie Portman's Jane, Skarsgård's Erik, Kat Dennings' Darcy) monitoring strange storm patterns, Thor abruptly shifts to the heavenly Asgard for 25 minutes to explain why a man falls out of the sky on the Earthlings' watch. There, we must contend with battle scenes that probably have Peter Jackson's lawyers on the phone with Marvel, though the scenes take place on such a poorly-lit, drab ice world that Marvel might be able to argue on the grounds that we could be watching anything. But despite these great wars and the bloodthirsty love of strength that defines the Asgardians, Odin (Anthony Hopkins) ultimately banishes Thor to Earth for arrogance and a thirst for war, sending along the hammer Mjolnir to return Thor's powers when he sets the Whac-a-Mole record a second time proves himself moral and wise.

I smoothed over a great many details in that first act, but never fear: the movie repeats every single plot element so often I'm sure I could pick up the missing pieces as I move forward. Thor seems to learn his lesson in humility a good 10 minutes after the film resumes in the present, or at least 10 minutes after the film decides to be serious for a moment and stop treading water with lame humor, the best of which already got played to death in the advertisements.

Thor follows the lead of the Star Trek reboot: spend a whole film essentially getting to the point where the actual story emerges, and spackle any cracks with one-liners. But where Star Trek managed to get by because it could keep adding characters to give the impression of a moving story, Thor putters about with its inconsistent hero, who's arrogant one second and charming and humble the next. Chris Hemsworth, who previously starred in Hitler's wet dreams (and also as Kirk's dad at the start of Star Trek), certainly has the presence for Thor, and he channels the goofier charm of the character's archaic, chivalric behavior.

But everyone around him has nothing to do. Portman, who finally gets to sink her teeth into a scientist role after getting two papers published in peer-reviewed journals, gets to talk science for about three minutes before she goes doe-eyed over Thor and his hand-kissing ways. Thor seeks to bridge that gap between "magic" (which is amusingly used in place of "religion") and science, and it would seem that the god of thunder's abs are so magical they scramble the rational woman's brain. Dennings and Skarsgård fare even worse: since they aren't going to kiss Thor at any time, they more or less hang back and lob mortars of advice and cattiness from a safe distance. Let's not even get started on Thor's fantastic four back home. I don't know their names, but everyone seems to be coming up with their own classifications. Mine were Hagrid, Errol Flynn, not-Michelle Monaghan and Hiro. (I was exceedingly disappointed when the writers saw me coming and threw in a tossed-off line about Robin Hood for that outlandish Asgardian).

However, it's Tom Hiddleston who walks away with the film as Loki. Compared to the rampant trickster and madman of the mythology, this comic-book version of the god of lies has a predictable but resonant backstory that gives the character something more than just mustache-twirling evil as motivation. Loki's jumps from scheming to pleading are written a bit too stiffly, but Hiddleston finds the transition between the two and gives a remarkable performance. It takes a special talent to wear a hat as ludicrous as the one on Loki's head and keep audience attention solely on his face. Hiddleston appears on the cusp of blowing up -- he's slated to appear in Spielberg's upcoming War Horse and Terence Davies' The Deep Blue Sea -- and judging from this film he deserves the shot at stardom.

It's a shame he only truly gets to shine on the sparkling utopia of Asgard, which does not mesh with his sinister vibe. For Christ's sake, the climactic battle takes place on a rainbow bridge linking Asgard to the other worlds, presumably Peppermint Forest, Gumdrop Mountains, Molasses Swamp, Peanut Brittle House and Lollipop Woods. Granted, Bifröst was a rainbow bridge in the mythology too, but it's hard to fear the incoming Norse warriors as they cross a giant Lite-Brite. Imagine the frost giants fleeing in terror: "Retreat, men! They've loosed the Care Bears of War!"

I should be clear: I did ultimately enjoy Thor. After the first hour, it settles into its groove and contains enough random kicks to keep an audience entertained. Some of its one-liners are so ridiculous I can't get them out of my head -- "Do not mistake my appetite for apathy!" rivals Drive Angry's "I never disrobe before a gunfight" for "Crazy Line of the Year" -- and some of the intended humor scores: I burst out laughing at Skarsgård's face when he tried to cover for Thor's behavior by yelling "Steroids!" with borderline jubilation. I also enjoyed seeing Clark Gregg's Agent Coulson divorced from the patronizing Tony Stark, where at last we can see him as a man in command of forces and not just a whipping boy for a rich kid.

If Marvel's franchises suffer worst from the excessive exposition of their first entries (or double back to get a whole film out of uncovered origin stories, à la X-Men: First Class), the studio has at least found ways to cover up these weaknesses. After all, for all the rote, cyclical plot of this film, more happens than in Iron Man, which feels like a blockbuster despite two largely tame action sequences. They've managed to put the idea into people's heads that more is happening than actually is, and that's a powerful skill. I just need to learn to start coming on-board these things starting with the sequels.