- Did you notice the big difference? The one enormous, if subtle, difference between the trailer for this movie about superheros punching one another and the last trailer about superheros punching one another?
- Unlike the DC universe, the Marvel Cinematic Universe contains something called “daytime.”
- Things happen in the afternoon sometimes.
- First, let’s get rid of the similarities: in both universes, superpowers are only granted to super-attractive people.
- (Ah, you’ll say: but Jeremy Renner has a face like a thumb. He doesn’t have superpowers and he’s stupid and dopey and his family-time was the worst thing about the second Avengers movie and we’re just not going to talk about the guy with the fucking bow and arrow.)
- And they’re both about a guy putting on a robot suit to fight a guy who began his fictional life as a metaphor for the immigrant story in America and dresses in red and blue.
- After those things, our products diverge.
- Both trailers feature a big reveal of a hero, but when Iron Man shows up, we’ve spent five movies and over ten hours with him. We know him: his likes (martinis, Audis), and dislikes (bad guys, Mondays, authority), so when he is shown to be on the side of the government, it is a shock and a tangible hook for the film.
- Whereas Wonder Woman just shows up.
- “Hey, guys.”
- “Hi.”
- “Sup.”
- …
- …
- …
- “I’m made out of clay, and from a lady-island.”
- And so on.
- How many people can you introduce into one movie? New Batman, new Alfred, new Lex Luthor, Wonder Woman, Doomsday, Dead Robin, new Batmobile, and we haven’t even seen Aquaman’s useless, wet ass yet.
- The Cap movie has the Black Panther, who is new and will have his own movie soon, and William Hurt playing a military guy, who is actually not new because he was in a Hulk movie which Marvel pretends didn’t happen, except for some parts of it.
- It also seems like Falcon gets some good screen time again, too.
- Whereas, the DCU is so white that Amy Adams is a part of it.
- Amy Adams is the whitest lady there is.
- Where’s Spider-Man?
- Batman vs. Superman: Dawn of Justice (which is a terrible name) also differs from Captain America: Civil War (which is a good name) in that it cribs from the Frank Miller Dark Knight Returns comic and from the Death of Superman storyline and this can do nothing but anger comic fans; the Cap movie steals the title “Civil War” and the whole “Cap and IM punch each other” from a Marvel story and that’s about it.
- The Civil War storyline was utterly absurd in the comic books: at one point, Thor was cloned and let’s leave it at that.
- Also noticed in this trailer: Black Widow doing that thing where she defeats her opponent by hitting them in the face with her crotch; War Machine getting his ass kicked; and Scarlet Witch having vague and unexplained powers.
- Is she a telepath?
- Does she use magic?
- If so, could she magic herself up a better accent than the one from the last film?
- I need to speak to Spider-Man.
- He may or may not show up, as Marvel now has his rights back and want to get him in something, but Hulk will not be in this film.
- In both movies and real life, it is very expensive to have the Hulk show up.
- Maybe the lesson from these two trailers is that bigger isn’t always better: there’s more story and emotion and drama in the harsh words exchanged by Tony and Steve than there is in the Human Tank and Alien Jesus fistfight.
- I have been promised a new Spider-Man.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: spiderman
Spidey’s always been my guy.
By 1972, Bobby had learned how to play. Not just play, but lead the band in his big-boy pants. Bobby was carving out a little space for himself and turning into Sergeant Major Clap-Yo-Hands and it was a good thing. Listen to 3:20 in Greatest Story: 8/27/72 is a Bobby show. Arguably the perfect versions of all of his Cowboy tunes, especially the soft landing he gives Dark Star with a counter-intuitive saunter into El Paso, and a great Promised Land, when he’s allowed to get to it.
The announcer is so stupid that he grew up to be Bill O’Reilly. Don’t tell people they were about to be sprayed with shit, man. His stupidity does lead to one of Bobby’s brighter moments. For some reason known only to his gods, Doofus decides to announce the location of the lost children tent over a loudspeaker. Because that’s information that everyone needs to know. Nothing bad could possibly come from broadcasting the location of our most vulnerable. Cleverly, Bobby cuts him off. Bobby was always sensitive to the welfare of children: his adolesence was rife with incidents resembling the Tragedy of Koko from the 1980 musical film Fame. Bobby now paid good money to ugly strangers to recreate the squalid de-pantsenings because, if pressed, Bobby would admit to enjoying every second of it. With Bobby, it was better to focus on actions; intentions were–at best–murky to all involved.
By the end of the show, you want to hurt the announcer. Physically. Methodically. Strategically. You can keep a man alive for such a long time while you introduce him to new worlds of PAIN (Scary music: oooh-AH-ahh!) His groovy dude patter sounds like a passage from the upcoming Ken Burns 32-hour documentary Summer of Love/Edgar Winter of Discontent: The 60’s; it will be read by Russell Brand doing a bumptiously fucked North California…accent.
(An aside, a flash-forward to the real, or at least realistic: America picks the worst Brits. We’re offered Eddie Izzard, we pick Piers Morgan. Piers Morgan is the Devil. No joke, no exaggeration. Foe the sake of the country, someone should plant heroin on him. And in his house. And car. Spider-Man had a bad guy named the Sandman who could turn himself into sand (Don’t think about it.) Like that, that much heroin. Just make him go home.)
1972 was a rock-solid year: it wasn’t flashy. If you said the word “swag” in front of ’72, it would hold you down and–using only his rough and manly stubble–flay the skin from your haunches AND your flanks. Forget about the loins, the loins are long gone, for these men were so very hairy in 1972. There was no grooming, no manscaping (well, sure, there was…just not in that part of San Francisco; couple miles away, freshly shorn was cute-and-kissable) back then, and their northern European bristles permeated everything and the music grew Teddy Roosevelt mustaches all over itself and the mustaches were made of balls and the BALLS WERE THEMSELVES HAIRIER THAN YOU’VE EVER THOUGHT BALLS COULD BE.
PS In keeping with my new pet theory about listening to the shows around the great shows, I present you with 8/24/72. Berkeley Community Theater. Setlist-wise, it’s comparable to the Veneta show, but with a great Morning Dew and far longer stretches of everybody being in tune.
PPS 8/24 blows the Veneta show away.
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