Marvel Cinematic Universe

Thor: Love and Thunder: Another Fray in Paradise

Jeremy BeckReviews
Natalie Portman and Chris Hemsworth in Thor: Love and Thunder

In opening narration that’s akin to the “Previously on” recap of a TV show, the blue rock-being Korg reminds viewers of Thor: Love and Thunder that Loki, the titular god’s brother, is dead; in fact, Thor has witnessed him die repeatedly. Death tends to be temporary in the Marvel Cinematic Universe—Loki’s own demise became the springboard for an ongoing streaming series—and as you watch this latest comic-book extravaganza from Taika Waititi, you may find yourself hoping for a miraculous resurrection, if only so the sly actor Tom Hiddleston might enliven the mechanized hullabaloo. You don’t get one, but the impish wit that was the god of mischief’s trademark still sometimes manages to shine through, penetrating the fog of stale plotting and monotonous fighting. Even if we’re collectively suffering from superhero fatigue (this represents the MCU’s 29th theatrical release), not everything here is old hat; for example, this is the first Marvel picture to feature a love triangle between a viking, a hammer, and an axe.

The axe, called Stormbreaker (“These weirdos all gotta have a name now”), is the jealous type; when it spies Thor (Chris Hemsworth, obviously) looking longingly at Mjölnir (the hammer, less obviously), it glides disapprovingly into frame, like a suspicious housewife who caught her husband peeking at his ex’s Instagram. Love and Thunder’s persistent insouciance can feel phony at times—a runner about the heroine workshopping a catchphrase is practically yanked from last year’s Free Guy (where Waititi had a small role)—but its smirking charm at least bears the stamp of genuine authorship. It is neither as funny nor as dynamic as its predecessor, the broadly appealing Ragnarok, but it nonetheless harnesses the same spirit of cheerful frivolity. Read More

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Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness: Have Hag, Will Travel

Jeremy BeckReviews
Benedict Cumberbatch in Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness

In one of the many memorable moments in Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man, an enraged Willem Dafoe murders a subordinate scientist who stubbornly insists that they need to take a dangerous chemical concoction “back to formula.” Things may not have turned out well for that underling, but in the two decades since Spider-Man’s release, it’s clear that his cold-blooded logic—the insistence on safety and reliability at the expense of risk and creativity—has earned the last laugh. The Marvel Cinematic Universe, now 14 years and 28 films and several zillion dollars into its reign as the planet’s most ruthless profit-generating machine, is undeniably a product of formula. It is a carefully balanced equation, a recursive system scrupulously designed to serve its fans, perpetuate its merchandise, and—on occasion—make some pretty decent movies. The challenge for any director working within this rigorously controlled franchise is whether they can smuggle their own sensibility—their own spiky and distinctive flourishes—into an enterprise that, by its very nature, flattens personal art into corporate entertainment.

So I am pleased and maybe a little bit to surprised to report that Raimi, the man who created the original Spider-Man trilogy and is arguably (albeit inadvertently) responsible for our current state of cinematic homogeneity, has risen to this challenge with élan and aplomb. To be sure, Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness, Raimi’s first feature in nine long years, is decidedly an MCU production. There are callbacks and cameos and teases and terminological mouthfuls and stale jokes and weightless scenes of computer-generated spectacle. But when he isn’t dutifully hitting these franchise marks, Raimi is sprinkling the margins and filling in the cracks with his own playful, eccentric touches. If the movie isn’t quite a Sam Raimi classic, it at least exhibits glimmers of classic Sam Raimi. Read More

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Spider-Man: No Way Home: Once, Twice, Three Times a Spidey

Jeremy BeckReviews
Zendaya and a masked Tom Holland in Spider-Man: No Way Home

The twin cornerstones of the Marvel Cinematic Universe (not to be confused with the six infinity stones) are fan service and self-reference. Fan service, in that the primary purpose of these movies is satisfaction—not telling satisfying stories, but catering to their audience’s collective wants. And self-reference, in that the most efficient method of achieving this goal is to cram each picture with copious easter eggs, cameos, and callbacks, the better to flatter viewers’ knowledge and inspire periodic bursts of applause. The point of new installments is to remind people of older ones. The MCU is arguably the most successful global franchise in the history of popular culture, and its success derives from how it operates as a cumulative series of homework assignments.

So it’s fitting that Spider-Man: No Way Home—the third entry to center on Peter Parker, everyone’s favorite science nerd turned friendly webslinger, and the whopping 27th episode of the MCU overall (with another half-dozen films slated for theatrical release over the next two years)—finds its hero applying to college. (Never mind that Tom Holland, the talented British actor who again plays Peter with an appealing combination of gawkiness and sincerity, turned 25 this past summer; proper aging is the least of Marvel’s continuity concerns.) Sure, the movie that bears him carries the hallmarks of modern fantasy: warped spells, fractured universes, toppled buildings, freighted battles. But it is first and foremost a history lesson—a crash course in Spider-Man lore designed to reward viewers for their continued attention and scrupulous studying. If the past two decades of comic-book cinema were the substance of the curriculum, No Way Home is the refreshingly easy final exam. Read More

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Eternals: Yuck Everlasting

Jeremy BeckReviews
Angelina Jolie, Richard Madden, Salma Hayek, and Gemma Chan in Eternals

Auteur theory meets its match in Eternals, the strange, occasionally beguiling, ultimately tedious new entry in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Critics tend to consider movies as belonging to their director, but Disney’s primary interest in property has always been intellectual rather than artistic. This doesn’t mean that the 21st century’s dominant franchise is devoid of personality—just that its cagiest filmmakers (James Gunn and Ryan Coogler among them) operate simultaneously as smugglers and stewards, sneaking in eccentric touches while hewing to commercial imperatives. Hell, the Russo brothers turned the latter Avengers pictures into billion-dollar hits less through innovation than carefully calibrated deference; they served their fans, pleased their bosses, and didn’t make anyone unhappy, which becomes easier when you take so few risks.

Into this minefield of consumer expectation and corporate ownership now steps Chloé Zhao, fresh off of winning two Oscars for Nomadland, and laboring to bring some art-house punch to the multiplex’s most anodyne commodity. It’s tempting to accuse the Marvel machine of squeezing the color out of Zhao’s filmmaking, and to brand her as yet another victim sacrificed on the altar of sequel churn. But Eternals, which Zhao also wrote with Patrick Burleigh (repurposing an original script by Ryan and Kaz Firpo), is too odd and intriguing to be disregarded as the product of studio interference. No, its failings are more pedestrian and predictable; its characters are unmemorable, its plot is nonsensical, and its action is risible. Read More

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Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings: How to Contain Your Dragon

Jeremy BeckReviews
Simu Liu in Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings

Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings could have been a damn good comic-book movie, if only it hadn’t been about the Ten Rings. Neatly ornamented circlets that flash blue-and-purple lightning, these conjoined jewels vest their bearer with cosmic power, which is cool for him but unfortunate for us. I’m sure that blasting bolts of deadly energy from your wrists is an efficient method of laying waste to your enemies; visually speaking, it’s a drag, and so is this film’s prologue, which appears poised to squander the great Tony Leung—saddling him with lank hair and medieval armor, then watching as he magically vaults over and slices through an entire opposing army. He’s lord of the blings, and his growling invulnerability initially marks him as yet another tedious Marvel villain.

Happily, the Ten Rings factor little into Shang-Chi, at least until its predictably torpid climax. Even the tired prologue is something of a feint, seeing as how it’s followed by a second preamble, this one far more elegant. Flashing forward a thousand-odd years to 1996, it finds Leung’s heavy, Xu Wenwu, newly shorn and stumbling into a pastoral grove, where he trades balletic blows with his future wife, Ying Li (Fala Chen); their graceful combat, as much a dance as a fight, recalls the stylish wirework of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. And for most of its runtime, Shang-Chi aspires to that level of intimacy and fluidity, eschewing CGI pyrotechnics and globe-altering stakes in favor of taut action and clenched family drama. Read More

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