Movie Review – Public Enemies

On rottentomatoes.com, Gina Carbone said about this film: “Never mind crime, I’m declaring the nation’s first war on hand-held cameras”. I couldn’t agree more. Not only Mann completely forgets how to direct, Dante Spinotti’s cinematography is the worst I’ve seen in a long time. If it wasn’t for Johnny Depp’s brilliant work, “Public Enemies” would be an instantly forgettable film.

The story is well-known. In the depression-stricken United States of the thirties, John Dillinger and his gang became popular in a “Robin Hood” fashion: expert bank robbers, they embodied the poor people’s desire for revenge for their miserable conditions. But John Dillinger was no Robin Hood. He had no wish to part with any share of his growing treasure. As his mockery of the law reached a critical point, J. Edgar Hoover gave Melvin Purvis the task of capturing Dillinger.

I realized I would have problems with this film when Pretty Boy Floyd is killed by Melvin Purvis within the first fifteen minutes, when Floyd actually died three months AFTER Dillinger himself. As the movie went on and more people kept dying before Dillinger (when in reality they were killed afterwards), I couldn’t help noticing the screenwriters simply didn’t know how to make the movie work without those deaths and were, in fact, afraid of having Dillinger die first, as if the movie would stop being interesting after that. So, instead of using techniques like flashforward, they just changed chronology. Those who read my reviews know how I just LOVE this lack of care regarding historical facts.

And when Dillinger, in this film, just strolls into the Chicago Police Department and then inside the task force that’s supposed to catch him, and then asks half the task force what’s the score of the game they’re listening to and then just strolls out unnoticed — something that obviously NEVER HAPPENED — I realized nothing could save this film. Not even Johnny Depp.

And Depp tries. Staying as true to Dillinger as he possibly can, Depp’s performance is fascinating. Absolutely arrogant and ambitious, and also violent when necessary, Depp manages to make Dillinger reluctantly likeable in his nerve and his dedication to Billie Frechette, a dedication that is a mixture of love and the need to take care of someone, to be in control. In the scene he realizes she’s being arrested and there’s nothing he can do about it, the frustration in his face is almost palpable — not only at the love of his life being taken away from him, but also at his powerlessness.

Christian Bale, in a far less interesting character, holds his ground well as agent Melvin Purvis — who was, in real life, much more fascinating. In the night of Dillinger’s death, Purvis was supposed to light a cigar to order the man’s arrest, but his hands were shaking so much it took two tries — his men understood the signal anyway and proceeded with the plan. Details like this are always welcome, but the script could clearly give half a shit about Melvin Purvis, who lights the cigar normally in the film (probably because the writers were afraid this small comical moment would hurt the drama of the scene, but I obviously can’t be sure). So Bale is left to shine whenever he can — his quiet look of anger and disgust at how one of his agents tortured a girl display Bale’s immense talent, easily the most gifted actor of his generation. Marion Cotillard isn’t given a complex character either — her Billie Frechette is portrayed as a simple object for Dillinger to love instead of a human being, always doing as she’s told. The talented actress does what she can, being successful during an interrogation scene, but like Bale, her efforts are thrown into the bin by the script.

Perhaps the cast would benefit from us being able to actually SEE them, but Dante Spinotti seemed to think forgetting to use a light or two on the sets meant good cinematography. It looks like the entire film happens during a city-wide power outage. There is nothing aesthetically pleasing about the shadows in “Public Enemies” — it just looks like someone forgot to pay the electricity bill. This is not helped by the use of digital camera, which in this film is highly sensitive to movement and blurs everything too easily. I rubbed my eyes constantly to make sure it wasn’t me, just so you have an idea.

And that is particularly problematic since Michael Mann is unable to keep his camera STILL. No matter what the scene is about, the damn thing is shaking to some degree. And in countless moments, instead of using zoom, Mann draws his camera so close to the actors’ faces I doubt they could see anything but the lens. The several shoot-outs are brought down by this carelessness and by Mann’s poor composition, which mostly boils down to keeping an actor’s face REALLY CLOSE to one side of the screen while someone else talks in the background. The editing is also annoying in the way it cuts too much between unnecessary angles, like on the sex scene between Dillinger and Frechette.

It’s a shame, since none of this does any justice to the exceptional production design, costumes and the overall recreation of that time. It tries to evoke the thirties, but Mann chooses to introduce Melvin Purvis with a Otis Taylor blues-rock song (Taylor wasn’t even BORN then) and breaks the illusion. Elliot Goldenthal’s soundtrack is beautiful, but far too obvious in the way it’s used, melodramatically cranking up the volume whenever Dillinger and Frechette kiss.

So it’s up to Depp to carry the film, and that’s what he does, in a bravely economic performance — and the look on his face as he’s dying, with a bullet hole on his cheek, and pronounces his near-unintelligible final words is heart-breaking — the ambitious, arrogant, powerful John Dillinger down on a pool of his own blood. The final moments of “Public Enemies” are the only scenes that truly made me feel any emotional reaction, especially when Dillinger’s last words are revealed (despite the soundtrack cranking up again right after that).

“Public Enemies” is a simplistically-written, poorly directed, laughably photographed film — to the point of me wondering whether the movie theatre was playing a prank on the audience by lowering the brightness of the screen. A sad waste of fantastic actors, but ironically — it’s probably the most accurately portrayed John Dillinger. I just wish the crew was up to the task as much as Johnny Depp was.

World Diplomacy

Population Size vs. Politeness

Comic Review – No Hero #06, The Punisher #72 and Prototype #04

(Trying out a looser, economic, less tight review style)

“No Hero” has been an infuriatingly inconsistent series. The first two issues seemed to be leading into a cliched “rookie-sees-that-his-idol-is-actually-an-immoral-cunt” story, and the other two issues fortunately started going on a new direction, even if they featured a protagonist who could talk perfectly well without any lips and didn’t seem to have a personality. In fact, a lot of the characters didn’t either.

And then, on issue #05, the plot just went bananas. Turns out Carrick Masterson IS an immoral cunt, which I wasn’t sure of since he oscillated so much between “sweet-talking, wry-smiling bastard” to “concerned, responsible leader”. And Josh Carver trying to save a falling plane was just a disastrous scene since it went completely against the realism the series has fought so hard for: what kind of even-barely-sane person tries to stop a plane by ramming HEADFIRST into it at full speed? What part of “planes have weak, fragile, vulnerable-to-inertia people in them” is hard to understand?

On that same scene, Digikore Studios fucked up the coloring by forgetting that Josh’s hands bleed while he tries to save the plane — another inconsistency in the writing (or Ryp’s artwork, I dunno whose idea it was), since pulling on a beam makes Josh’s hands bleed, but ramming them onto the front of a falling plane apparently causes no harm at all (except on the plane) — and when he’s back on the ground, his hands seem fine. Of course, they could regenerate quickly, but where did all the blood get to? And if they can regenerate quickly, why wasn’t that mentioned? In fact, why do we learn Josh can fly only when he’s about to go save the plane? Is it his first time flying? Don’t we get to see him training this skill first? And wasn’t he completely insane on issue four? What, he’s perfectly fine now?

Nitpicks like this haunt “No Hero” and, added up, become one big glaring flaw. And now, on the sixth issue, Warren Ellis goes for two of the most obvious twists he could have chosen and Juan Jose Ryp forgets how to draw faces. The latter can be painfully verified on the last panel of the first page. Which is a shame, since Ryp’s art was starting to become narratively better and more consistent, and here it suffers again from a lack of clarity and some poor facial anatomy. But otherwise, the level of detail is staggering, and some pages look simply amazing (and the colouring by Digikore Studios does not have any problems this time, being efficient).

The writing inconsistencies also plague this issue — Josh Carver says that the FX7 shows you who you think you should be. Wait a second — he knew this, Carrick didn’t? Carrick MADE the fucking drug. He watched several people being transformed by it. And yet Carver figured it out? The same guy who tried to stop a plane by ramming into it HEADFIRST?

And is Carver crazy or not? After spending two issues talking like a mongoloid (but intelligibly, despite having no goddamn lips) or not at all, on the fifth he seemed perfectly articulate all of a sudden. In fact, on this issue, he even grew lips — something he didn’t have on the last panel of the previous issue, so he basically grew lips while going back to Carrick’s mansion. And now, he’s part of a twist that I expected but hoped wouldn’t come because it was just the most obvious path to take. In fact, I’m surprised Carrick himself didn’t see it coming, something that is made even more hilarious by the page where he asks himself WHAT WENT WRONG.

Excuse me, are you retarded? What’s the new factor? When did things start going wrong? What did Mandy AND Marsh warn you against, one right after the other? Are you really a genius scientist?

To make things worse, it seems Carrick is not only just another immoral cunt, he’s a typical comic book villain who controls the world and wants to keep hold of it. To see him make a speech about how the world is his was just painful to read. Especially because a lot of the things he describes, like Bin Laden being dead or there having been an institution of black states, were not established on any of the previous issues and for that reason, feel like cheap shots at impressing the reader with a parallel world.

To make things EVEN worse, a recurring problem in Ellis’ writing — expositional dialogue — is back. The moment Josh explains why he thinks his penis fell off during the transformation, it becomes clear, judging by the way he says it and the way the other person is not exactly in a state to pay any attention, that Josh is explaining it to the reader, not to the person. And it’s just there for Ellis to shock most readers with “wound fucking”.

Speaking of fucking, we get to the last page, which…

…

… is so ridiculously over-the-top that I pretty much gave up expecting any further realism, or sense, from this comic. The plot might even MAKE sense, something that’ll be established on the next and final issue, but it’s poorly-structured and poorly-told. None of the characters have actual personalities, the dialogue is either expositional or exaggerated in its attempts to sound clever (“Well, I’ll take my silver linings wherever I can find them. Even if they look a little bit like duct tape gleaming from the wrists of a forcibly restrained patient”) and there’s far too many nitpicks and inconsistencies that add up to problematic story-telling. After issue five, “No Hero” could either blow my mind or shoot its own foot. It shot its own foot. With a rocket launcher.

On the other hand, “The Punisher” has been a nice surprise. After Garth Ennis left the series with sixty magnificent issues under his belt (not to mention the amazing specials), I really couldn’t think of anyone who could keep up that standard, so I hoped the next writer would understand that he shouldn’t try to top Ennis’ work, just do his own job as best as possible. I was prepared to accept someone else’s Punisher as long as it was, you know, The Punisher.

What I got, at first, were five horrendous issues. Not only Gregg Hurwitz tried to bring Jigsaw into the Max series (c’mon, everyone’s tired of that prick), he explored every cliche in the book regarding The Punisher and the final issue was just FUNNY, with Frank Castle actually managing to throw an object across the air and hit a switch with it that made a crane drop a container on a bunch of bad guys. Yes, he’s a natural born killer. No, he’s not Bullseye.

And that artwork by Laurence Campbell was just a fucking joke.

The next five issues, however, were surprising, since writer Duane Swierczinsky wasn’t afraid to try a different tone while doing the most important — staying true to the main character. “Six Hours To Kill” was an enjoyable (and darkly funny) arc with exceptional artwork by Michel Lacombe. I thought it would be a quick highlight on a series that would resume inevitable mediocrity.

Fortunately, writer Victor Gischler has proved me wrong so far. “Welcome To The Bayou” shows Frank Castle in new territory — dealing with redneck white trash. While this isn’t much of a plot, Gischler writes it with such charm and wit that it’s surprisingly interesting, and manages to add his own style. His Frank Castle has a sense of humour that, fortunately, never goes overboard and is never gratuitous, something writers like Matt Fraction got horribly wrong on “Punisher War Journal”.

And it’s great to see Goran Parlov back, aided by the ever-efficient colourist Lee Loughridge. I consider Parlov’s sketchy, but narratively perfect artwork to be superior to Sean Phillips’, which is saying a lot. In this comic, he continues not to disappoint, drawing clear action scenes and never making me stare in doubt at what I am seeing (something Juan Jose Ryp isn’t very good at, although, let’s be fair, I really DID NOT expect the last page of “No Hero #06″).

Gischler stays true to Castle’s careful methods and strategies, especially during a well-written brawl. This is not the Garth Ennis Punisher and I’m okay with that, as long as it continues to be this entertaining (and well drawn) and maintaining a level of coherence.

Finally, “Prototype #04″.

“You’ve all read the brief”, a soldier explains to his team in an elevator. And then, he proceeds to repeat the brief he just said everyone in that elevator ALREADY KNOWS. This is textbook expositional dialogue, and man can it turn me off. Witty dialogue during action scenes also annoy me — when your life is at risk, your priority is not thinking of clever things to say. And yet, we have a guy running from a monster in this comic who claims he’d love to be saved by “half-naked roman gladiators at this point”.

I have to confess I gradually lost interest in this book written by Jimmy Palmiotti and Justin Gray. But despite the dialogue, the action scenes are well-written, dynamic and especially, well-drawn by Darick Robertson and Matt Jacobs. Wes Hartman’s colours also deserve special mention in their good detail and lighting. It’s an eye-candy, entertaining book, but whatever interest I truly had in the plot has vanished. It lost momentum. Also, it doesn’t help to see a character who, as far as I know, is a phisically normal human dragging a DEAD LION with ONE HAND across SNOW.

Fun book, very pretty, above-average for a videogame-inspired comic. Some thought went into this, and some of the dialogue is interesting and well-researched — but it just overall lost momentum.

Wishing Well

Flash Fic #14 – Those Last Moments

The train was late. Or maybe time was just slower. He wasn’t looking at the clock, or at anything. His vision was blurry and his mouth sour with the taste of blood. A constant stream of it seeped from the wound on his chest to the hand clutched over it, following the rhythm of his heart, weaker by the minute. Every breath felt like his chest was ripping open, to the point of having pissed all over himself and the bench he was sitting on. Not that he cared.

The only sound he heard was his own painful breathing. Nobody around. Nobody to see him die. And that was fine by him. He didn’t want the train to come. He wanted the subway station to stay exactly like it was — silent, oblivious, lit by its cold artificial lights. In a few hours, that place would be packed with people going to their jobs, to look for one, to their schools, or — for the ones who worked the night-shift — to their homes.

But that would be in a few hours. Right now, the subway station was peaceful and he wanted it to stay that way. Even if it hadn’t been the first place he saw after being shot, even if he had made it to a hospital, or to a park, or anywhere else — he would have wanted to die in a place like this. Because he’d die anyway, and he didn’t want people over him telling him he’d be okay, or that he had to be strong for them, or begging him not to die as if he had a choice in the matter. He wanted to die like this — to have a chance to think about those last moments.  When you’re sure you’re about to die, all the curtains, the lies, the deceit you built for yourself fall apart and you see your life more clearly than you ever did. Shame it’s too late by then.

But it was worse for the guy who shot him — he didn’t get to think about those last moments. He just died before even realizing a bullet had gone straight through his brain.

He felt his feet slipping slightly and realized there was a pool of blood beneath them. Wouldn’t be long now. He let a chuckle escape and coughed enough blood to fill a cup as a result. He wondered who’d find his body. He wondered how often that person would tell this story to amuse or terrify his friends, or how often that person would need therapy. It didn’t matter to him now, and probably wouldn’t have before either. He didn’t care about people, or about anything. He had no regrets. He had no remorse. He had known he was a psychopath since his twenties and had embraced it. And now, he was getting what had been a long time coming to him.

A hitman dying alone in a New York subway station. Nothing could suit him more. He never had friends, only pretended to. He had always hated his parents. Always hated the happy little fucking people who just went through life with an honest smile. The ones who just fit in without any effort. The ones he had always envied. The ones who looked at a woman and saw more than just a quick pleasure, the ones who saw a person begging in the street and would feel the urge to help them — the ones who’d try to help him if they saw him sitting in that bench, watching his own blood seep out, liter by liter. The ones who cared. The ones he could never be.

He heard the echo of a train make its way through the tunnel. He didn’t want it to come. He wanted the silence to continue. He wanted to die in silence. He wanted to hear himself go.

But it came and thundered across the station. During those long, dragging seconds, he wished he wouldn’t die.

And it was gone, and the silence was back, even sweeter than before.

He could die now.

—

(This flash fic was inspired by a gorgeous photograph by Rachael Noel Fox, available on her wonderful photography book “DAD SOLD CRACK HERE“. The link has a preview through which you can easily find the pic, although it does no justice to the photograph in the actual, printed book.)

Tumblr! (1)

I have been unable to shut up on my Tumblr. I know, I know, there is a “Ranting” category here, but when I rant on my workblog, I like it to be a large, well-written rant with an actual point or two, and Tumblr allows for something more spur-of-the-moment, unedited, angry (none of which are very positive adjectives, come to think of it).

So I’ll compile my rants and other smaller, quicker pieces of text here, since I initially started Tumblr to point to things I like, not to publish original work. And since I’m doing the latter now, I should post it here as well — since it’s my workblog and all. So, the first batch:

—

“!!!” (4 days ago)

I hate exclamation marks.

Imagine the above sentence ending with an exclamation mark and you’ll see why. It sounds like one of those whiny kids you’ll usually find in places that are supposed to be silent, especifically built in a way to shut out the outside world and give you some silence to read, or relax or whatever and suddenly comes this brat who has decided it is the PERFECT place to pretend he’s Indiana Jones running from a tribe of spearmen —

— sorry, I digress. Back to exclamation marks. Their addition on the end of most sentences will make you sound like a retard and take out the comedic value of any quote, even if it is used to emphasize irony. Italic is a much better way of doing that. The one true use for exclamation marks is, well, an exclamation. And even so I don’t like to rely solely on it — I like to use italic, bold or even all-caps in order to avoid, completely, that goddamn whining tone.

It’s one of the main reasons I hate advertising, aside from the main one that it’s trying to sell you bullshit as if it’s something revolutionary and so much better than all the other similar bullshit from different companies. They try to do that with exclamation marks. Not just that, they are authoritarian too, the pricks. “Buy this!”, “Consume that!”, “Drink this!”. It always sounds like the cheeriest motherfucker in the planet is saying that to you, and all you want — well, all I want — is to punch him until his nose is protruding from the back of his head. Perhaps a cuff across the ear would be enough for you, dunno. Pussy.

Not to mention the few times someone comes up with an actually decent joke to sell their product with — they stick an exclamation mark in the end of it and it’s like the joke is being told by that cousin of yours who constantly interrupts himself with his own premature laughter.

I think I’m done now. In my defense, I just woke up.

—

“Diet, Phase Two“ (3 days ago)

Have you ever noticed the effect your bedroom has on your mood? It varies from person to person, but to me, a messy bedroom is an unsettling reflection of my own psyche (which is all kinds of fucked up). I like to keep it neat, but not TOO neat — neat enough that I can still quickly switch between writing, practicing piano, playing some games, watching a film or going to sleep, all of that without dodging piles of dirty clothes scattered all over the carpet.

The same can be said of my body. I used to weigh 225 lbs. My face was practically a circle and I had horrible concentrations of fat on my abs, butt and thighs. After I started an incredibly radical (but sufficiently healthy) diet, I lost weight until I reached 185, at which point I could no longer stand the constant hunger and resumed my normal food habits (which have never been good).

But the effect it had on my mood was fantastic. Suddenly I could do pull-ups, wear tighter clothes, photograph my face from more than one deceptive angle. It was a completely different life, being thinner. But after a year (and the addition of only six pounds, fortunately), the novelty wore off and I could see the remaining imperfections clearly, because let’s face it — 193 lbs (my current weight) is nowhere near good to a guy who measures 5’11”.

My face is no longer a circle, but it’s oval — and I always wanted a gaunt face. If I loosen my abs, a belly is clearly visible, and my thighs still wobble unflatteringly when I move.

And let’s drop the bedroom metaphor for a second and talk honestly: I also happen to love women and would like to look attractive for them.

“Oh”, someone says. “But women don’t care about looks, they care about personality and —” I interrupt the person with my uproarious laughter and escort them out of Cuckoo Land for my next paragraph.

BULLSHIT. While they certainly care about personality way more than men do (stick your boobs in our face and whether you kill kittens or not mostly ceases to be our concern), it’s obvious the way you look is a factor. And even if it wasn’t, I see it as terribly unfair — attractive women work their asses off to stay attractive and meanwhile all I need to do is make them laugh once or twice, expose one or two deep thoughts and suddenly I’m worth your attention?

Personality is vital, but good looks also matter. Women have a right to lust for well-toned male abs as much as we lust for round female butts.

So now I’m starting phase two of my diet, which will destroy the remaining physical problems I perceive on myself and whatever’s left, I will work out into inexistence. Should take a month or two, since the diet goes like this:

Only one meal a day: a soup full of whatever’s necessary to keep me alive. And for the rest of the day, fruit, whenever I feel like it. Next day, repeat. And so on.

That’s it.

I went from 225 lbs to 185 in two months doing that, and at the end of it I was still perfectly sane (well, as sane as I get). Except that at that point I would get an erection every time I saw a pizza.

And now that I just started the second phase of this diet, everyone will starting talking happily about food I CAN’T FUCKING EAT in three, two, one…

—

“Movie Critics’ Gems” (yesterday)

One thing I enjoy doing is bashing little capsule reviews on RottenTomatoes that, regardless of the quality (or lack of it) of the movie in question, manage to be stupid all by themselves.

“Public Enemies”, one of the movies I have been expecting the most this year, has been getting mixed reviews that either say it’s groundbreaking in its approach or simply a mix of good scenes and bad scenes.

And while some capsule reviews manage to say a lot and be funny at the same time, like Gina Carbone’s “Never mind crime, I’m declaring the nation’s first war on hand-held cameras”, some really astound me in mediocrity.
Tim Evans: “Classy for sure. Sharply paced too. But while Public Enemies gives Bonnie And Clyde a run for their money, The Godfather has nothing to fear.”

I could give a fuck if it beats “The Godfather”, I do not expect every gangster movie to have that ambition. Is it good? Is it not? Or are you actually resenting this film because it is inferior to “The Godfather”?
Sunday Mail: “The hottest gangster movie in ages.”

WHY? Or do you expect me to take your fucking word for it?
Mike Ward: “The cat and mouse game played by the world’s most prolific bank robber and the first big-time FBI agent isn’t worth a slice of government cheese.”

More worried about making stupid metaphors about rodents than simply saying why he dislikes the film…
David Edelstein: “The best rejoinder to Public Enemies is Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal video… It’s a tommy-gun gangster fantasia with a touch of Guys and Dolls, and it’s everything Public Enemies isn’t.”

Right, so what the movie is lacking is Johnny Depp and Christian Bale starting to dance?
Gary Wolcott: “America in the throes of a depression idolized them as heroes. They robbed hated banks. Some think today’s bank robbers actually run them but that’s commentary for another day.”

Apparently commenting on the fucking MOVIE also was left to another day.
Kam Williams: “Depp does Dillinger in grisly gangster saga.”

No shit, Kam! Thanks for summarizing the synopsis for us.
Christian Toto: “Public Enemies is exactly what summer audiences deserve – a smart, sophisticated action movie. So why does it feel like a letdown?”

Er, yeah, why. It’s your job to try and figure that out. And if you think I’m interpreting that as a hook to read the full review, think again.
Cammila Albertson: “For people who loved Heat, this is a tour de force.”

Much easier to compare it to a previous film rather than speaking about the actual film.
Nick Rogers: “It’s no “Heat.” For skirting the lawman’s story, call it “Warmth.” Still, it bulks up, with Midwestern muscle, from a violent version of “The Aviator” into Mann’s “Gangs of New York” – unwieldy and imperfect, but compelling, exciting and thoughtful.”

I cannot tell if Nick thinks “Gangs of New York” is by Michael Mann or if he thinks “Public Enemies” is Mann’s version of “Gangs of New York” or if Nick was high when he wrote this. “Warmth”, Jesus Christ…
Colin Covert: “It fits neatly on the shelf with Bonnie and Clyde and The Godfather.”

Again using other movies to (not) talk about the one in question.
Jules Brenner: “The popular reaction to what the defiant anti-hero came to represent in depression-era America made it almost criminal to call him one.”

Are you paid to review a movie or write for Wikipedia?
Brian Tallerico: “Audience members who find themselves on the same wavelength as Mann and his screenwriters will find enough to talk about to keep them raving about Public Enemies for days.”

“On the same wavelength” sounds like one hell of a prerequisite to enjoy a movie.
Fiore Mastracci: “This film shows the difference between classes of criminals; the difference between gangster and gangsta.”

And that means WHAT regarding the quality of the film, exactly? Did I miss a memo?
Steven Rea: “Ultimately, the movie’s a bust.”

It’s a capsule review, Steven, not a capsule adjective.
Stephen Whitty: “What’s the reason to make this movie, now?”

Oh, I dunno, for you to watch it and wonder what the reason is?
Peter Travers: “It’s movie dynamite.”

Sigh.
Nick Schager: “Public Enemies fizzles at the moment of detonation.”

Right.
Jolene Mendez: “As much as the film had bang for the buck, it just did not cut it.”

Sure.
Susan Granger: “Awesome, action-packed and enthralling…”

Three adjectives that could describe a million other films, no review.
I have a lot of fun doing this, as you can certainly tell. Now, lunch.

—

That’s it for the first batch. I’ll try to keep it regular but a little more compact, since this might be too many words to take in on a single blow.

Comic Review – Batman And Robin #02, Gravel #12, Crossed #06 and The Boys #32

Batman And Robin #02

Written by Grant Morrison

Art by Frank Quitely

Colours by Alex Sinclair

Lettering by Patrick Brosseau

Published by DC Comics

In a nutshell: this sequel to Morrison’s horrendous run on Batman is just as forgettable, with annoying characters and a tone that feels too much like “All-Star Superman” instead of a Dark Knight story.

I was prepared to give Morrison another chance to shine writing anything related to Batman, even though this story contains something I consider a flaw in the character: Robin. Batman as a loner is much more interesting and coherent than having a brightly-coloured kid as a partner.

And when Morrison’s Robin is the most annoying kid in the recent history of comics, you cannot make me like this fucking book.

The story is… well, after not acting according to plan while trying to stop an attack on a police station performed by tipically Morrison-esque characters (a guy with his head on fire, a hugely fat lady and… clones), Robin decides he won’t be Robin anymore. No, there’s nothing to distinguish this from all the million other similar plots in any narrative medium you care to name. And this isn’t even motivated by a good reason, just by Robin’s immense arrogance that keeps making me wish he gets in the way of a wrecking ball. And meanwhile Nightwing/The New Batman keeps moping about how he sucks as Batman and blah-blah-blah. Of all the ways this story could have been handled, this is the most predictable and generic.

Not to mention Morrison still can’t decide on the tone — this Batman feels more like Silver Age Batman, not the Batman that should exist today — the one seen on mature, complex pieces of work like Azzarello’s “Joker”. And Morrison’s eccentric dialogue and characters just contribute to make this book look as far as possible from the dark, gothic Gotham City I’ve come to love and that has always held great appeal for me. And yet another problem Morrison hasn’t bothered to fix: Batman and Robin continue to show super-human strength, like the moment where Robin is thrown against a wall and cracks it with ridiculous force, instead of the wall cracking his spine.

And the usually reliable Frank Quitely provides a sketchy, confusing artwork that is especially flawed in the unclear action scenes. None of the beautiful clean lines and great narrative seen on “All-Star Superman”, just muddled, lacklustre work. All of which is made even worse by Alex Sinclair’s coloring, which invests in a varied, bright palette that has nothing to do at all with Batman or Gotham City — but, well, when the writer himself is doing his best to get away from that as much as possible, can I blame the colourist for following his lead?

I guess not. This book’s problem really is Morrison, which just proves to me every month he’s the most overrated comic writer in the industry. And this book, on its second issue, is turning out to be even worse than the pathetic run that originated it.

Gravel #12

Story by Warren Ellis

Written by Warren Ellis and Mike Wolfer

Art by Mike Wolfer

Colours by Juanmar

Lettering by Avatar Press

Published by Avatar Press

In a nutshell: even though it’s clearly following a formula since issue one, it’s still an entertaining and occasionally creative read.

The first seven issues consisted in William Gravel murdering the members of the Minor Seven, usually one per issue. And as the formula for a first, opening arc, that was more than acceptable, especially since it was written with wit, charm and Gravel’s typical anti-hero charisma. But now, on this second arc, Gravel is once again murdering someone per issue, in this case, members of the MAJOR Seven — while recruiting people for his own team of magicians, which is a welcome addition to a plot that is quickly wearing out.

With Avatar Press, Warren Ellis has done the exact opposite of what Garth Ennis has done — instead of using the publisher’s exceptional creative freedom to develop his ideas as much as possible, his stories for Avatar have been more like half-developed, if enjoyable, ideas. Only “Doktor Sleepless” shows more depth, since “Wolfskin”, “Blackgas” and “Black Summer” present some good concepts that are never explored to their full potential.

And William Gravel is a great character who hasn’t yet reached his climax. He’s smart, tough and a bastard, but still not fully-rounded as a character, possibly to keep him unpredictable — which also keeps him distant from the reader. He’s intriguing to follow, but his decisions rarely, if ever, impact on me.

Mike Wolfer, however, does his best to add whatever depth he can to the protagonist, and in this issue he succeeds via a conversation he has with one of the Major Seven, who outwits Gravel using only words and no violence. And while this conversation was planned by Warren Ellis, since he developed the story, the details are likely Wolfer’s, and his dialogue is interesting without trying to be too witty — a problem Ellis has and that constantly deprives his dialogue of character voice, although this has been much less present in his recent work.

As the artist, Wolfer delivers the same solid, consistent artwork I’ve come to expect from him, always narratively clear, elegant and with an immediately recognizable style. I especially like the one with the snakes. And Juanmar’s colours complete his work well, getting the color palette and the overall tone right.

What “Gravel” needs is a more complex, interesting story that goes beyond one guy per issue getting killed. This is a formula that has gotten old but that, for now, is still kept alive by Wolfer’s writing and some of Ellis’ concepts.

Crossed #06

Written by Garth Ennis

Art by Jacen Burrows

Colours by Juanmar

Lettering by Avatar Press

Published by Avatar Press

In a nutshell: like the last issue, Ennis continues to add depth to his characters, now that the horrendous world that was left after the Crossed came has already been established emphatically. Another brilliant issue.

The previous episode was disarming, but to me probably less than most people, since I have been reading Garth Ennis for years and can already see there’s much more subtlety and depth to him as a writer than at first glance. Focusing on the way nature goes on despite humanity going down the shitter, the last issue was interesting and brilliant in showing how oblivious the world is to human suffering — and the spread with the wolves was beautiful and yet melancholic in symbolizing exactly that. Ennis also took the opportunity to start adding more depth to his characters, something he was doing to a smaller degree as he portrayed the world overrun by the Crossed — and now that we’re past half of this series’ duration (nine issues), Ennis replaces our morbid curiosity in watching the apocalypse with a genuine concern regarding the main characters — something I already felt, but it’s stronger now.

Elegantly telling the backstories of two characters while moving the plot forward, Ennis resumes the violence from previous issues for the narrative’s sake, as he tells what happened to Kittrick and Geoff. And while Kittrick’s story is simply traumatic, Geoff’s verges on comedy as he reveals something about himself that came unexpectedly. But mind you, it VERGES on comedy, something Ennis never allows unintentionally, and it comes as a good narrative surprise in reminding us the existence of the Crossed does not make all the other humans saints.

Jacen Burrows’ art is as beautiful as ever, with brilliant perspective, characterization and some lighting work that Burrows doesn’t usually use but doesn’t disappoint when it’s required. Juanmar’s colours are moody and appropriate, establishing the tone well, resulting in a comic that excels both narratively and visually.

And it promises a ferocious climax. Knowing Ennis, he’ll make us care about the characters as much as possible before showing us their merciless fates.

The Boys #32

Written by Garth Ennis

Art by Carlos Ezquerra

Inks by Hector Ezquerra

Colours by Tony Avina

Lettering by Simon Bowland

Published by Dynamite Entertainment

In a nutshell: an intense, explosive issue that, unlike previous ones, is focused on action and shows “The Boys” in a moment of extreme vulnerability, starting to explore the careful build-up from the previous thirty-one episodes. Ezquerra, however, isn’t up to the task.

In a complete turn of events, the member of The Boys I least expected to get beaten half to death got beaten half to death. With The Female in a hospital, the rest of the team goes to see her and find out they’re not in a hospital — she was taken to a place that could be turned into a trap. And meanwhile, Starlight deals with her new “uniform”, which is small enough to be easily stuffed in your pocket.

But Starlight is just Ennis balancing the progression of the plot, since the obvious focus is The Boys falling into a trap. It’s ironic that Ennis dislikes superheroes so much and yet can write amazing action scenes with them — a shining example being the moment the windows explode due to a sonic boom, which builds up to the following page where the fight starts.

But the real focus of this issue is truly Billy Butcher, whose dangerous nature is portrayed as strongly as ever. While Hughie is becoming less and less capable of dealing with all the violence of the world he’s gotten into, Butcher is growing angrier at the people around him and, especially, at his targets. And it’s made clear that while he’s a super-human, his killing methods are still very much human, as exemplified by the use of a belt. The action scene that dominates most of this issue is brilliantly written and shocking due to being unexpected.

However, the efficient Carlos Ezquerra (inked by Hector Ezquerra) is not efficient enough for something like this. He’s a poor artist regarding action scenes, and while he does try hard here, he doesn’t come even close to the sense of impact and danger that Darick Robertson would be capable of conveying with his artwork. However, the scenes are clear and Ennis’ writing makes up for Ezquerra’s artistic shortcomings — except on the panel where we see Butcher using the belt, which needed much more power and less action lines. But the panel showing Butcher taking off the belt in order to use it deserves credit for its good use of shadows. If there’s one artist who should be replacing Robertson, that would be Steve Dillon. Avina’s colours, fortunately, haven’t lost any of their usual quality, doing their best to enrich the artist’s work, and Simon Bowland’s lettering is noticeably more intense than normal, as can be seen on the moment Starlight yells at two guys.

Tense and impactful, “The Boys #32″ is a brilliant way to start the second half of this exceptional ongoing. It’s a shame Robertson can’t keep up, since this episode would have hugely benefited from his artwork.