A fourth wall break inside a fourth wall break? That's like, sixteen walls.

Deadpool

(2016)

Yeah, Deadpool’s okay. Probably fantastic if you’re caught ‘midst the throes of adolescence. Which is pretty much what I expected; a relentless stream of masturbation and penetration gags does not a movie – let alone a great movie – make. The occasional spurt would have been more than sufficient.

Screenwriters Rhett Reese and Paul Warnick were clearly aware of this problem, such that they disciplined themselves and diligently incorporated a bona fide plot. But Deadpool/Wade Wilson’s fixation on recovering his looks so he can, in turn, recover his lost love is tepid at best. And yet. Deadpool delivers sufficient genuinely funny gags (most of the good ones are very meta-) and just about enough investment in the proceedings to keep its gnarly head above water.

I can only be faintly positive about the picture though, since it’s so clearly aimed at a completely different age group to my increasingly antiquated one. It has that much in common with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Which isn’t to say it’s rubbish, like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but they do both occupy a relentlessly hyper, juvenile, sugar-rush self-regard that far exceeds their actual effectiveness. Mostly, Deadpool doesn’t even pretend it isn’t engaging in playground antics of one-upmanship and outgrossing itself. This is especially so when Wade and Weasel (TJ Miller, not to be confused with director Tim Miller) exchange unpleasantries on how unattractive the former’s new visage is. And they still missed the most obvious one, that he looks a bit like a latter-day Nick Nolte.

Reynolds obviously is Deadpool, laying to rest a largely justified reputation as box office poison. If I were studio execs, though, I wouldn’t rush out and offer him every high profile part under the sun just yet; his newfound bankability may yet prove about as enduring as Daniel Craig’s star status in non-Bond roles. That said, this is a character(s) one could easily imagine Jim Carrey essaying in decades past, and Reynolds gamely delivers a slew of self-mocking quips, from referencing the disastrous Green Lantern, to his roundly reviled X-Men Origins Deadpool incarnation via a “Deadpool sewn-up mouth” action figure, to citing Ryan Reynolds getting by on minimal acting talent thanks to his pretty face.

Winning too are the biting-the-hand-that-feeds-it swipes at the Fox Marvel-verse, be it confusing James McAvoy with Patrick Stewart, repeated jabs at Hugh Jackman’s all-consuming presence, or barbs concerning Deadpool’s cheapness (The X-Men mansion, occupied as it is by only two mutants). However, this kind of thing could have gone further.

In the opening, extended car chase, Deadpool leaps from a bridge, but we don’t see him land on/in the villains’ car; instead, we cut to the merc with the mouth in transit. Missing is the money shot, one that would have been essential to a Bryan Singer main event X-sequel, and the failure to take the piss out of such limitations suggests Miller et al aren’t quite as no-holds-barred as they’d like us to believe. They may even be a little sensitive. While much of the action is decently-choreographed, it isn’t especially inspired; as with the pervasive nob gags, it’s all about getting to that severed head or pixelated bullet hole in a stray limb (Miller’s background is an effects artist). The sort of thing we’ve seen many times before, and just as overly CGI-assisted. Only not in a Marvel movie. Actually, maybe in the name-checked Blade.

Ironically, the most consistently engrossing part of the picture is largely dramatic; the flashbacks detailing Wade undergoing the mutant gene-prodding process. Of course, the least engrossing part (Wade’s relationship with Monica Baccarin’s Vanessa) is also largely dramatic. There’s no recourse to asides during these sequences, so rather than undercutting how formulaic they are, they again emphasise that the much vaunted anarchy (break that fourth wall, Ryan!) only goes so far.

Likewise, the villains (Transporter Unloaded star Ed Skrein and mixed martial artist and one-time Soderbergh muse Gina Carano, who here extends her range with some intense prop acting courtesy of much-chewed matches) are as generic as they come. Despite sporting an authentically comics-liveried X-Men costume, Negasonic Teenage Warhead (Brianna Hildebrand) makes little impression (you can only get away with so many Sinead O’Connor gags) but I liked Stefan Kapičić’s genteel and courteous Colossus (he even pauses mid-fight, inviting Carano’s Angel Dust to cover up her wardrobe slippage). The actual CGI for Colossus leaves something to be desired, but Kapičić’s performance more than compensates.

The ideal length for a picture of this ilk is about 90 minutes; short, snappy, leaving you wanting more. Instead, Deadpool manages to over-indulge, despite is modest trappings. That’s likely because it’s a martyr to excess, enamoured of its playground freehand to offend at the expense of any form of restraint. For all it’s revelry in distinguishing itself from its peers, I found the picture stopping yet again for more repetitively sourced Deadpool banter more wearying than when it heads into traditional set piece climax territory. You can see both coming a mile off, but straining so hard to be edgy quickly loses its lustre.

One area where the movie’s success appears to be unqualified, though: spelling the death knell for Bryan Singer’s over-reaching and under-nourished grip on the X-Men franchise. With it, Fox’s self-prescribed fairy tales detailing the ingredients for a hit comic book movie have instantaneously crumbled to dust. We’re now promised an R-rated Wolverine 3, which is rather missing the point that Deadpool has been a hit because it’s doing something different, but the pertinent takeaway may filter through eventually. Fox greenlit the movie only after the Internet went apeshit for a leaked test reel, which had been sitting on a shelf for two years. Usually I’d mock such online adulation as hyperbole, but Deadpool’s staggering success speaks for itself. So, like pretty much everyone else, I was dramatically wrong in my estimation of the appetite for the movie. Although, not so much in terms of its quality. But yeah, Deadpool’s okay.

Your Mickey Mouse is one big stupid dope!

Enemy Mine (1985) (SPOILERS) The essential dynamic of Enemy Mine – sworn enemies overcome their differences to become firm friends – was a well-ploughed one when it was made, such that it led to TV Tropes assuming, since edited, that it took its title from an existing phrase (Barry Longyear, author of the 1979 novella, made it up, inspired by the 1961 David Niven film The Best of Enemies ). The Film Yearbook Volume 5 opined that that Wolfgang Petersen’s picture “ lacks the gritty sauciness of Hell in the Pacific”; John Boorman’s WWII film stranded Lee Marvin and Toshiro Mifune on a desert island and had them first duking it out before becoming reluctant bedfellows. Perhaps germanely, both movies were box office flops.

If I do nothing else, I will convince them that Herbert Stempel knows what won the goddam Academy Award for Best goddam Picture of 1955. That’s what I’m going to accomplish.

Quiz Show (1994) (SPOILERS) Quiz Show perfectly encapsulates a certain brand of Best Picture nominee: the staid, respectable, diligent historical episode, a morality tale in response to which the Academy can nod their heads approvingly and discerningly, feeding as it does their own vainglorious self-image about how times and attitudes have changed, in part thanks to their own virtuousness. Robert Redford’s film about the 1950s Twenty-One quiz show scandals is immaculately made, boasts a notable cast and is guided by a strong screenplay from Paul Attanasio (who, on television, had just created the seminal Homicide: Life on the Streets ), but it lacks that something extra that pushes it into truly memorable territory.

No one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself.

The Matrix (1999) (SPOILERS) Twenty years on, and the articles are on the defining nature of The Matrix are piling up, most of them touching on how its world has become a reality, or maybe always was one. At the time, its premise was engaging enough, but it was the sum total of the package that cast a spell – the bullet time, the fashions, the soundtrack, the comic book-as-live-action framing and styling – not to mention it being probably the first movie to embrace and reflect the burgeoning Internet ( Hackers doesn’t really count), and subsequently to really ride the crest of the DVD boom wave. And now? Now it’s still really, really good.

Other monks will meet their deaths here. And they too will have blackened fingers. And blackened tongues.

The Name of the Rose (1986) (SPOILERS) Umberto Eco wasn’t awfully impressed by Jean Jacques-Annaud’s adaptation of his novel – or “ palimpsest of Umberto Eco’s novel ” as the opening titles announce – to the extent that he nixed further movie versions of his work. Later, he amended that view, calling it “ a nice movie ”. He also, for balance, labelled The Name of the Rose his worst novel – “ I hate this book and I hope you hate it too ”. Essentially, he was begrudging its renown at the expense of his later “ superior ” novels. I didn’t hate the novel, although I do prefer the movie, probably because I saw it first and it was everything I wanted from a medieval Sherlock Holmes movie set in a monastery and devoted to forbidden books, knowledge and opinions.

Say hello to the Scream Extractor.

Monsters, Inc. (2001) (SPOILERS) I was never the greatest fan of Monsters, Inc. , even before charges began to be levelled regarding its “true” subtext. I didn’t much care for the characters, and I particularly didn’t like the way Pixar’s directors injected their own parenting/ childhood nostalgia into their plots. Something that just seems to go on with their fare ad infinitum. Which means the Pixars I preferred tended to be the Brad Bird ones. You know, the alleged objectivist. Now, though, we learn Pixar has always been about the adrenochrome, so there’s no going back…

All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies.

Watership Down (1978) (SPOILERS) I only read Watership Down recently, despite having loved the film from the first, and I was immediately impressed with how faithful, albeit inevitably compacted, Martin Rosen’s adaptation is. It manages to translate the lyrical, mythic and metaphysical qualities of Richard Adams’ novel without succumbing to dumbing down or the urge to cater for a broader or younger audience. It may be true that parents are the ones who get most concerned over the more disturbing elements of the picture but, given the maturity of the content, it remains a surprise that, as with 2001: A Space Odyssey (which may on the face of it seem like an odd bedfellow), this doesn’t garner a PG certificate. As the makers noted, Watership Down is at least in part an Exodus story, but the biblical implications extend beyond Hazel merely leading his fluffle to the titular promised land. There is a prevalent spiritual dimension to this rabbit universe, one very much

Piece by piece, the camel enters the couscous.

The Forgiven (2021) (SPOILERS) By this point, the differences between filmmaker John Michael McDonagh and his younger brother, filmmaker and playwright Martin McDonagh, are fairly clearly established. Both wear badges of irreverence and provocation in their writing, and a willingness to tackle – or take pot-shots – at bigger issues, ones that may find them dangling their toes in hot water. But Martin receives the lion’s share of the critical attention, while John is generally recognised as the slightly lesser light. Sure, some might mistake Seven Psychopaths for a John movie, and Calvary for a Martin one, but there’s a more flagrant sense of attention seeking in John’s work, and concomitantly less substance. The Forgiven is clearly aiming more in the expressly substantial vein of John’s earlier Calvary, but it ultimately bears the same kind of issues in delivery.

He tasks me. He tasks me, and I shall have him.

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan (1982) (SPOILERS) I don’t love Star Trek , but I do love Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan . That probably isn’t just me, but a common refrain of many a non-devotee of the series. Although, it used to apply to The Voyage Home (the funny one, with the whales, the Star Trek even the target audience for Three Men and a Baby could enjoy). Unfortunately, its high regard has also become the desperate, self-destructive, song-and-verse, be-all-and-end-all of the overlords of the franchise itself, in whichever iteration, it seems. This is understandable to an extent, as Khan is that rare movie sequel made to transcendent effect on almost every level, and one that stands the test of time every bit as well (better, even) as when it was first unveiled.

In a few moments, you will have an experience that will seem completely real. It will be the result of your subconscious fears transformed into your conscious awareness.

Brainstorm (1983) (SPOILERS) Might Brainstorm have been the next big thing – a ground-breaking, game-changing cinematic spectacle that had as far reaching consequences as Star Wars (special effects) or Avatar (3D) – if only Douglas Trumbull had been allowed to persevere with his patented “Showscan” process (70mm film photographed and projected at 60 frames per second)? I suspect not; one only has to look at the not-so-far-removed experiment of Ang Lee with Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk , and how that went down like a bag of cold sick, to doubt that any innovation will necessarily catch on (although Trumbull at least had a narrative hinge on which to turn his “more real than real” imagery, whereas Lee’s pretty much boiled down to “because it was there”). Brainstorm ’s story is, though, like its title, possibly too cerebral, too much concerned with the consciousness and touting too little of the cloyingly affirmative that Bruce Rubin inevitably brings to his screenplays. T

They say if we go with them, we'll live forever. And that's good.

Cocoon (1985) Anyone coming across Cocoon cold might reasonably assume the involvement of Steven Spielberg in some capacity. This is a sugary, well-meaning tale of age triumphing over adversity. All thanks to the power of aliens. Substitute the elderly for children and you pretty much have the manner and Spielberg for Ron Howard and you pretty much have the approach taken to Cocoon . Howard is so damn nice, he ends up pulling his punches even on the few occasions where he attempts to introduce conflict to up the stakes. Pauline Kael began her review by expressing the view that consciously life-affirming movies are to be consciously avoided. I wouldn’t go quite that far, but you’re definitely wise to steel yourself for the worst (which, more often than not, transpires). Cocoon is as dramatically inert as the not wholly dissimilar (but much more disagreeable, which is saying something) segment of Twilight Zone: The Movie directed by Spielberg ( Kick the Can ). There

Now In Full Color, with a Happier Ending

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