Skip to main content

Like an antelope in the headlights.

Black Panther
(2018)

(SPOILERS) Like last year’s Wonder Woman, the hype for what it represents has quickly become conflated with Black Panther’s perceived quality. Can 92% and 97% of critics respectively really not be wrong, per Rotten Tomatoes, or are they – Armond White aside – afraid that finding fault in either will make open them to charges of being politically regressive, insufficiently woke or all-round, ever-so-slightly objectionable? As with Wonder Woman, Black Panther’s very existence means something special, but little about the movie itself actually is. Not the acting, not the directing, and definitely not the over-emphatic, laboured screenplay. As such, the picture is a passable two-plus hours’ entertainment, but under-finessed enough that one could easily mistake it for an early entry in the Marvel cycle, rather than arriving when they’re hard-pressed to put a serious foot wrong.


None of which matters to box office, which will far exceed anyone at the Mouse House’s wildest dreams by the looks of things, certainly putting the (relative) surprise successes of fellow less-than-sure-thing comic book properties Deadpool and Wonder Woman in the shade. Like those two, though, you’re rather left wondering where the great movie lay amid the overwhelming response. Ryan Coogler has penned all three of his features to date, but this one, on which he collaborated with Joe Robert Cole, seems to have escaped him. The basic premise is classically robust – a new king must defend his throne and land, overcoming challenges of confidence and interlopers – but too often the results are stodgy or under baked.


It’s actually surprising how ungainly the picture’s commentary is. Having set up a compare-and-contrast between “exiled” cousin Erik Killmonger (Michael B Jordan) and (King) T’Challa (Chadwick Boseman), the soundbites of angry young Afghanistan veteran Erik, scorning the isolationist pose of Wakanda at the expense of black people everywhere (else) and out for revenge over the death of his daddy, quickly become tiresomely one-note. And that’s with Jordan giving it everything. While there’s fuel enough to make this a very different Marvel movie, it’s more defined by how remarkably formulaic it is; even the playful calling out of white oppression (“coloniser”) seems more manufactured than provocative, and you never quite know for sure, but I doubt Erik really wanted his last words to induce a collective groan.


I’ve read praise of how well Coogler and Cole provide for their wide cast, which may be true in terms of screen time, but only a few of them are allowed to become interesting along the way. Boseman’s been an arresting screen presence hitherto, but like Chris Evans, he comes a cropper when asked to play a simply not very interesting superhero. I had high hopes when T’Challa volunteered himself for a Bond-esque spy mission, complete with casino, but the sequence flickers and fades before devolving into an unenthused CGI-infused car chase. When T’Challa is thrown off a cliff by Erik, possibilities again presented themselves: of his struggle back from the brink. Instead, he’s merely revealed as having an ice-cold kip and requiring an herbal pick-me-up.


Lupita Nyong’o also suffers from underwriting, despite getting significant screen time (I’d hesitate to say she’s the love interest, but yeah, she is). Better served are Danai Gurira’s take-no-shit bodyguard Okoye and Daniel Kaluuya’s confidant W’Kabi, but too little is made of setting their relationship at odds over conflicting loyalties, particularly since this is parsed out during the de rigueur underwhelming Marvel third act battle (this one complete with daffy rhino riding). Forest Whitaker just seems to give up the will when showing up in blockbusters, for some reason (or perhaps it’s just that they’re not such great blockbusters). And I found Leittia Wright’s kid sister Q (Shuri) on the annoying side of cheeky. Which I shouldn’t have, as her performance is enthusiastic and upbeat, and a problem the picture has generally is that it’s severely lacking in playfulness or irreverence; it’s only really Andy Serkis bringing that side of the equation, for as long as he’s in the picture. Martin Freeman? Well, his American accent is better than Sherlock co-star Cumberbatch’s, but he might have the least interesting recurring Marvel role this side of Hawkeye.


Coogler did a great job with Creed, his graduation to studio pictures, but here he continually fails to make the most of the further step up in scale. One can almost sense he knows the comic book genre isn’t his forte. The effects are frequently not very special (in particular, some very ropey digital doubles that could have walked off the virtual set of The Matrix Reloaded), the action sequences are at best competent, but mostly fail to come alive or thrill – Ludwig Göransson’s distinctive score does its best, but can’t bridge the gap – the Wakandan politics are perfunctory and needed to be much more involved, grasping their sub-Shakespearian mettle for all it was worth to justify the time devoted to them; at times, it feels like you’re watching a rather inert ’50s or ‘60s costume epic – the vision quest/afterlife sequences are disappointingly lacking in imagination, both visually and thematically (since they seem to consist of spending quality time with one’s dead dad; they may as well be bumping into ghost Dumbledore at a spectral train station).


The ritual combat/coronation set is, as Tom Paulin would say, awful, especially so since it’s fakeness is rubbed in our faces when we revisit it; once can almost touch the polystyrene rock face when one isn’t staring into the unconvincing studio sky. It’s unfortunate too that he crowd throwing in oohs and aahs and rallying cries awkwardly punctures rather than fuels the tension in two of T’Challa’s most defining scenes. Wakanda is very colourful, in an Afro-chic fashion, but cinematographer Rachel Morrison only fitfully makes it come alive.


There are also some excruciatingly bad setups, such as Erik happening to be approached at the Museum of Great Britain (what, what, what? The where?) by a director he just happened to have the perspicacity to poison immediately prior, or Nakia very presciently choosing to take a look at the casino’s closed-circuit monitors at exactly the point Killmonger and Klau arrive.


There are bigger problems, though. Most of the interactions fail to click; there’s a lack of energy, engagement and depth of character. I much preferred the 1992 Oakland scenes with their respective parents to anything involving the main leads. Sterling K Brown as Erik’s father N’Jobu really needed a larger part (he stole the show in American Crime Story). The biggest issue with Black Panther is pacing, though. There are much less interesting Marvel films that have turned out better than this because they’ve flown along. Coogler never builds up a head of steam.


One area he does dive wholeheartedly into is the thorny problem of Wakanda’s isolationism. There was no way he could have avoided it coming up in critiques, so making it central to the motivation of the new generation of Wakandans is entirely appropriate, as well as encouraging a degree of topicality. Like the characterisation, though, the delivery is in so prosaic that T’Challa all but proclaims “I will not be like Trump”. That said, I’m curious to see how drastically the olive branches offered at the end of the movie alter the Marvel-verse. After all, Wakanda has seemingly awesome science that ultimately means no one need die (at least, until their bodies wear out), unless The Powers That Be intervene and mess things up in proliferating it to the rest of the world. All that Centauri tech doesn’t seem to have visibly altered the lives of the average person for the better, after all.


Indeed, Wakanda may be the most technologically advanced society, but it clearly leaves itself open to other questions over its running. Like Asgard, power is wielded by birthright or through violent challenge. Added to which, it’s an advance society with the equivalent of barcoding for everyone, which can’t be good. Generally, despite the layering in of tribal factions, there’s very little sense of how this place functions; it seems built on aesthetics, rather than logic. You can get away with that on Thor’s godlike plane(t), but I didn’t get much more from this than cool aircraft cruising over a retro-futuristic cityscape.


So yeah, I thought Black Panther was merely okay, which is nigh-on damning for a Marvel movie. The last one like that was Ant-Man and that at least had the toy train sequence. Doubtless Kevin Feige will be intent on securing Coogler’s services for the Black Panther 2, but I’d rather see him pursue something more attuned to his talents.



Agree? Disagree? Mildly or vehemently? Let me know in the comments below.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Believe me, Mr Bond, I could shoot you from Stuttgart und still create ze proper effect.

Tomorrow Never Dies (1997)
(SPOILERS) Some of the reactions to Spectre would have you believe it undoes all the “good” work cementing Daniel Craig’s incarnation of Bond in Skyfall. If you didn’t see that picture as the second coming of the franchise (I didn’t) your response to the latest may not be so harsh, despite its less successful choices (Blofeld among them). And it isn’t as if one step, forward two steps back are anything new in perceptions of the series (or indeed hugely divisive views on what even constitutes a decent Bond movie). After the raves greeting Goldeneye, Pierce Brosnan suffered a decidedly tepid response to his second outing, Tomorrow Never Dies, albeit it was less eviscerated than Craig’s sophomore Quantum of Solace. Tomorrow’s reputation disguises many strong points, although it has to be admitted that a Moore-era style finale and a floundering attempt to package in a halcyon villain aren’t among them.

The Bond series’ flirtations with contemporary relevance have a…

Haven’t you ever heard of the healing power of laughter?

Batman (1989)
(SPOILERS) There’s Jaws, there’s Star Wars, and then there’s Batman in terms of defining the modern blockbuster. Jaws’ success was so profound, it changed the way movies were made and marketed. Batman’s marketing was so profound, it changed the way tentpoles would be perceived: as cash cows. Disney tried to reproduce the effect the following year with Dick Tracy, to markedly less enthusiastic response. None of this places Batman in the company of Jaws as a classic movie sold well, far from it. It just so happened to hit the spot. As Tim Burton put it, it was “more of a cultural phenomenon than a great movie”. It’s difficult to disagree with his verdict that the finished product (for that is what it is) is “mainly boring”.

Now, of course, the Burton bat has been usurped by the Nolan incarnation (and soon the Snyder). They have some things in common. Both take the character seriously and favour a sombre tone, which was much more of shock to the system when Burton did it (even…

Remember, you're fighting for this woman's honour – which is probably more than she ever did.

Duck Soup (1933)
(SPOILERS) Not for nothing is Duck Soup acclaimed as one of the greatest comedies ever, and while you’d never hold it against Marx Brothers movies for having little in the way of coherent plotting in – indeed, it’s pretty much essential to their approach – the presence of actual thematic content this time helps sharpen the edges of both their slapstick and their satire.

Poor Easy Breezy.

Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood (2019)
(SPOILERS) My initial reaction to Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood was mild disbelief that Tarantino managed to hoodwink studios into coming begging to make it, so wilfully perverse is it in disregarding any standard expectations of narrative or plotting. Then I remembered that studios, or studios that aren’t Disney, are desperate for product, and more especially, product that might guarantee them a hit. Quentin’s latest appears to be that, but whether it’s a sufficient one to justify the expense of his absurd vanity project remains to be seen.

I just hope my death makes more cents than my life.

Joker (2019)
(SPOILERS) So the murder sprees didn’t happen, and a thousand puff pieces desperate to fan the flames of such events and then told-ya-so have fallen flat on their faces. The biggest takeaway from Joker is not that the movie is an event, when once that seemed plausible but not a given, but that any mainstream press perspective on the picture appears unable to divorce its quality from its alleged or actual politics. Joker may be zeitgeisty, but isn’t another Taxi Driver in terms of cultural import, in the sense that Taxi Driver didn’t have a Taxi Driver in mind when Paul Schrader wrote it. It is, if you like, faux-incendiary, and can only ever play out on that level. It might be more accurately described as a grubbier, grimier (but still polished and glossy) The Talented Ripley, the tale of developing psychopathy, only tailored for a cinemagoing audience with few options left outside of comic book fare.

On account of you, I nearly heard the opera.

A Night at the Opera (1935)
(SPOILERS) The Marx Brothers head over to MGM, minus one Zeppo, and despite their variably citing A Night at the Opera as their best film, you can see – well, perhaps not instantly, but by about the half-hour mark – that something was undoubtedly lost along the way. It isn’t that there’s an absence of very funny material – there’s a strong contender for their best scene in the mix – but that there’s a lot else too. Added to which, the best of the very funny material can be found during the first half of the picture.

I still think it’s a terrible play, but it makes a wonderful rehearsal.

Room Service (1938)
(SPOILERS) The Marx Brothers step away from MGM for a solitary RKO outing, and a scarcely disguised adaption of a play to boot. Room Service lacks the requisite sense of anarchy and inventiveness of their better (earlier) pictures – even Groucho’s name, Gordon Miller, is disappointingly everyday – but it’s nevertheless an inoffensive time passer.

My name is Dr. King Schultz, this is my valet, Django, and these are our horses, Fritz, and Tony.

Django Unchained (2012)
(MINOR SPOILERS) Since the painful misstep of Grindhouse/Death Proof, Quentin Tarantino has regained the higher ground like never before. Pulp Fiction, his previous commercial and critical peak, has been at very least equalled by the back-to-back hits of Inglourious Basterds and Django Unchained. Having been underwhelmed by his post Pulp Fiction efforts (albeit, I admired his technical advances as a director in Kill Bill), I was pleasantly surprised by Inglourious Basterds. It was no work of genius (so not Pulp Fiction) by any means, but there was a gleeful irreverence in its treatment of history and even to the nominal heroic status of its titular protagonists. Tonally, it was a good fit for the director’s “cool” aesthetic. As a purveyor of postmodern pastiche, where the surface level is the subtext, in some ways he was operating at his zenith. Django Unchained is a retreat from that position, the director caught in the tug between his all-important aesthetic pr…

This better not be some 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea shit, man.

Underwater (2020)
(SPOILERS) There’s no shame in a quality B-movie, or in an Alien rip-off done well. But it’s nevertheless going to need that something extra to make it truly memorable in its own right. Underwater, despite being scuppered at the box office, is an entirely respectable entry in both those arenas from director William Eubank, but like the recent Life (which, in fairness, had an ending that very nearly elevated it to the truly memorable), it can’t quite go that extra mile, or summon that much needed sliver of inspiration to set it apart.

Goodbye, Mr Chimps.

At the Circus (1939)
(SPOILERS) This is where the brothers sink into their stretch of middling MGM movies, now absent the presence of their major supporter Irving Thalberg; it’s probably for the best this wasn’t called A Day at the Circus, as it would instantly have drawn unflattering comparisons with the earlier MGM pair that gave them their biggest hits. Nevertheless, there’s enough decent material to keep At the Circus fairly sprightly (rather than “fairly ponderous”, as Pauline Kael put it).