Why Iron Man 2 Doesn't Work

I liked the first Iron Man. I thought it was fun with simple good vs. evil and dazzling effects. I thought it was good, but not great. I had low expectations for the second film. I only hoped to be as entertained as I was the first time. Instead, I was actually quite disappointed. It was okay, but not good. Sure, the effects were again pretty amazing, and there were lots of 'splosions, but something about it was just wrong. Recently, I think I discovered why-- the screenplay doesn't match the directing.

I only listen to two podcasts about film: Filmspotting and Creative Screenwriting. I love them both for completely different reasons, but I highly recommend them. In FS episode #301, they talk about Iron Man 2. I won't bother to rehash everything they said (besides, it's far too entertaining to listen to it straight from the source), but in the end they were disappointed as well. They mentioned things like not caring about the characters and the dialog being too flippant.

Just this past week I was catching up with old CS podcasts, and I came across this quote from Jon Favreau (the director) at an Iron Man 2 round table discussion:

We looked at the successful film sequels that we liked ... The two that we liked the most... were Wrath of Khan and Empire Strikes Back. Those are the two that we said, "They did it right. Now let's look at what they did right."

Although he didn't say so, I have no doubt that Spider-Man 2 and The Dark Knight were also on their radar.

What do those films have in common? Aside from generally being the fan favorites of the series, they're also considered the most dark. That admission from Mr. Favreau is what made it all click for me in my head.

When the reviews for Iron Man came out, a lot of the positive buzz mentioned that it was "light" and "fun" (especially when compared to Dark Knight). It was a great way to start off the summer blockbuster season. But the interesting thing to me is that it actually contains several dark elements:

• Tony Stark kidnapped and tortured
• Multiple deaths and violence due to war
• An over-the-top evil father-figure who not only uses a neural paralysis device, but also attempts to kill Tony by ripping his heart out.

All of these are pretty serious. And they're handled seriously in the film. But surrounding those elements, we have Tony learning to fly, neat computer graphics, a cool suit, and generally good times. The audience doesn't dwell on the negatives, because there are more positives to uplift.

Now let's look at some of the dark themes in IM2:

• Government trying to confiscate the suit
• Dangerous alcoholism by Tony
• Tony's best friend Roady betrays him and steals an earlier suit in order to weaponize it.
• A mad Russian has not only duplicated the technology, but is also trying to kill Tony...
• ...because it turns out that Tony's dad (in addition to being John Slattery/Walt Disney) was a crook who cut out the Russian's father's participation in creating the device.

Those are some pretty dark and serious themes, and the list doesn't even include the rival arms manufacturer who commissions super robots that terrorize civilians at the public expo!

So, why doesn't it work? Because the serious elements of the story are brushed away, discussed flippantly, or just plain ignored. It is okay to have both dramatic and comedic elements in the same film. In fact, I would argue that the best films (of both types) almost always have a degree of both. The first Iron Man was able to pull it off. The problem here is that the director seemed to be addressing the dramatic themes with a light-hearted, comedic style. And that just doesn't work.

I'm not a big Favreau fan, but I believe he is a competent director. His decisions here really confuse me. When Whiplash is terrorizing the Monaco Gran Prix, literally slicing cars in half in his attempt to exact revenge on Tony, why did he interject the chauffeur (played by Favreau) speeding on the track with Pepper? Is it comic relief to see them dodging head on traffic? Are we supposed to be laughing when Tony gets smashed at his party and abuses the suit to entertain his guests? He contemplates the betrayal of his friend by hanging out in a giant donut? What is going on here?

I blame the director here because he sets the tone on the set. He tells the actors what sort of mood he is looking for. It is great for a movie to have ups and downs, an emotional roller coaster. But it is not good for it to do both at the same time, in which case you get a merry-go-round-- flat, uneventful, going nowhere with no surprises.

New vs. Old vs. Then vs. Now

"The more things change, the more they stay the same." -Anonymous

or

"What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun." -Ecclesiastes 1:9

The observation that movies and television recycle and reuse ideas is so well-known as to be a cliche itself. Some would argue that stories themselves can be broken down to 12 (or is it 9? I forget) basic narratives, but that's a topic for another day perhaps. I'll just accept it as a given that Hollywood is redundant. But what other observations can we make?

LOST vs. Gilligan's Island

I am by far not the first to make this comparison. As a matter of fact, here's an amusing little link to someone who spent too much time thinking about it already. It's made even more entertaining by the fact that it was written somewhere along Season 2. What other comparisons could be made now?

My real point with this comparison is the idea of episodic versus serialized storytelling. As a kid, I loved Gilligan's Island unabashedly. It was a daily afterschool rerun ritual. I loved the first season of Lost as well (I still watch it, but it is a vastly different show now). But in GI, every show was independent. You could watch them in any order. You knew everything you needed to know from the opening credits. You also knew that no matter what, everything would return to status quo by the end of the show. Lost made a deliberate effort against both of those statements.

Of course, it's patently unfair to compare a 60's sitcom with a 00's drama. Sure, the desert island theme is pretty timeless (especially in Lost), but other than that, they really have next to nothing in common.

BSG vs. Battlestar Galactica

The original was loosely serial. You still had the opening narration that let you know who the players were, what was at stake, why it was happening. But between each show, was there really any continuity? Did it really matter in what order they were watched?

The more recent incarnation was quite rigid. It's another show that I loved at the beginning, but gradually came to dislike. The essential problem with serialized narratives seems to come from the conflicting goals of story and commerce. Characters need to grow and change; some may even need to die, if the story dictates it. But fans, producers, actors, and advertisers like to have reliable sameness. "You can't kill off, Starbuck, she's the most popular character!" When characters who are expected to die don't, or worse, come back, I think it cheapens the story and deserves the derogatory comparison to soap operas.

Lost did a great job with this the first season. Most of the actors were relatively unknown (re: expendable), so the writers could get away with killing anyone. As the show grew in popularity, they had to bring in new people so they'd have someone to kill. This last season, they actually killed Locke, but brought him back as the Anti-Jacob just so Terry O'Quinn could keep collecting a paycheck.

Star Trek vs. Star Trek

The older I get, the more I love the original series (TOS). The plots were thought-provoking, yet simple. It dealt with ideas and concepts more than technology. The solutions were always understandable. You could watch them in any order, of course, and the relationships never changed.

Then look at Next Generation (TNG). Let's just ignore the first couple of dreadful seasons. They still tried to keep it the same every time, but it just wouldn't work after a while. Two-part episodes turned into minor themes or even season-long "arcs." Character choices often didn't make sense ("We've pulled out the captain's chair for Riker three times; he just won't sit down!"), except to maintain the status quo.

All the later Trek shows continued and expanded on this serial narrative. Deep Space Nine actually transforms itself through out it's run. Anyone watching the final episode without having an understanding of the whole narrative would be confounded (like I was).

Jon & Kate plus 8 vs. The Brady Bunch

Some would say that serialized storytelling is more like real life. Characters, just like the actors who play them, get older. Life changes things. People develop and grow, relationships come and go. One could even say that reality shows are a natural extension of the trend towards serialization. The spontaneity makes it fresh and (supposedly) unpredictable. Things change. Stuff happens that really matters. But with all the footage taken and edited down into an hour episode, is that really accurate? Besides, I think the reality shows aren't much different from live television variety shows from the early days, except they have less talented performers.

Law & Order = Dragnet

Thankfully for me, episodic television has not died completely yet. There are still plenty of shows that you can appreciate without ever having seen an episode.

Sadly, the whole point of this post when I conceived it was to talk about why that narrative shift may have occurred, and instead I spent all this time babbling about everything else. Oh well. Next time, perhaps.

42 Up!

I'm a little behind on my posting this week, so I may actually try to do more than one post a day to make up for it. We'll see how I feel about it tonight.

Well, my birthday has come and gone. As always for me, birthdays are a time of reflection. You may have noticed that I've been posting to my blog more frequently than usual. That's not exactly a New Year's resolution, but I was motivated by something I read on my friend Mischa's blog (I can't find it right now, else I would link to it). He's participating in some blog-o-thon or something, where you must write on your blog x amount in so many days. It's based on the NaNoWriMo idea for writing a novel in 30 days. Anyway, for some reason, just seeing his post made me determined to up my contributions this year.

I'm not one for resolutions at the New Year. As a matter of fact, I hate New Year's; it's easily my least favorite holiday. However, I do go through almost the same ritual when it comes to my birthday. It seems more personal to do it then. I have a lot of things on my "to do" list this year, most of which probably wouldn't really count as resolutions anyway. But one of them is to blog more, and so far I'm not doing too badly. I should really do these early in the morning when my mind is fresh.

Anyway, this was my 42nd birthday, which seems pretty huge. Part of the problem with having a youthful outlook like I do is that I often forget how old I really am. Not that I mind, really, it's just interesting/sad.

I have heard a theory (I don't know the source), that everyone changes every seven years. The reason behind it is that is how long it takes all the cells of your body to regenerate. So, after seven years, you are literally a different person because all the old cells have died and been replaced with new ones. I don't know how much I buy that idea, but it certainly has proven interesting for me. Of course, it may just be coincidence that every seven years a person reaches a certain plateau or milestone-- school, life, awareness at seven, puberty at 14, drinking at 21, optimism and enthusiasm at 28, full-fledged maturity at 35, and now downhill at 42. That last one is a joke, folks. Had I married earlier, I could easily see my 40s as the age in which I embraced parenthood. I still look forward to that, but time is not exactly on our side.

There is a fantastic series of movies that fits right in with this notion. Documentary filmmaker Michael Apted follows a group of young children in Britain. The Up Series was originally meant as a study of how class affected the attitudes and aptitudes of British children born in the 60's. However, on his own, Apted has continued the project every seven years. He catches up with as many of the children as are willing to talk to him, and continues to document their lives. The most recent one was 49 Up.

I highly recommend this series to everyone. Don't be intimidated or think that you need to come in at the beginning. Each film is readily accessible. Yes, there are rewards from seeing all the films, but the order is not important and in fact, sometimes it can be fascinating watching an older film (35 Up, for example) when you already know what's in store for the characters.

So, here's hoping that the coming seven years (and more) prove as interesting as the last, and that I'm still here to report on life and everthing at 49.

Reading, Writing, Drinking

Agh, would you look at that. Three book review blog entries in a row. That's pathetic.

I have half a dozen or so posts that are still in the Drafts folder. I even have an essay I've been kicking around in my head for over a month now called "Why I Can't Write." Needless to say, I haven't written it yet. And I don't really feel like writing it now, although I do want to talk about it in a related way.

Part of my problem with this blog is that I don't really know what to do with it. That's been the case from the beginning. Is this a journal for my innermost thoughts? No. Is it a place for me to share ideas with friends? That would be nice, but most often I just email them directly. Is it a tool for me to hone my writing? Ideally, but clearly I'm not using it that way. So what am I doing (or not doing) this for? I don't know. Until I figure it out, expect continued sporadic posting and random ramblings. Like this:

So, the other day several people from my office went to a new bar down the street for happy hour. It's called Anvil, and it specializes in mixed drinks. That doesn't sound very unusual, and really, it isn't. There are plenty of bars around. But what I enjoyed about this place was the amazing knowledge and care that all the bartenders had for their craft.

The bar opened just five weeks ago and is owned and operated by a group of local bartenders. They are all passionate about spirits, and it shows. Every drink was made with meticulous detail, and the bartenders are all happy to tell you the entire history of the drink they're making. And I don't just mean why it's called a Mint Julep or what have you. They'll tell you why it's made with bourbon, how bourbon made it to the South, and the effects of the Whiskey Rebellion. I even had a conversation about the density and consistency of the ice and how it affected the flavor and temperature of a cocktail. Did you know a "cocktail" is a specific drink?

As you can tell, I found it all fascinating. After the book I just read, the timing of discovering this place was incredible. I'm really not a drinker of liquor. I'm a beer snob for sure, and I do enjoy wine, but spirits have always seemed, I don't know, too fancy for me. At Anvil, I discovered that they may be fancy, but they also have an amazing amount of lore and history, which really captivated me.

The bartenders maintain a blog (hopefully more focused than my own) which includes several interesting entries such as the "Five American Whiskey Cocktails You Must Try in Your Lifetime." (Yes, I'm aware that is an excellent marketing tool, but it was also a great history lesson at the bar.)

I'm always impressed by people who follow their passions. These guys really know about spirits, so I will continue to support them and their new venture. Who knows, maybe I'll become a connoisseur myself someday.

Here Comes the Flood

Yeah, it's been a really, really, really long time since I posted to the blog. Sorry about that.

I've been a little busy in the interim, what with getting married and all. And that's partly what's led me to finally picking up this digital pen and scribbling online once again.

I'm in the (very painful) process of clearing out my apartment in a weak attempt to cram my sizable fortune of doodads and junk into my tiny new home. It's a difficult activity in many ways. I've always been a pack-rat, holding on to the silliest things for far too long. Is it sentiment, or materialism, or what? I don't know, and it doesn't really matter. But as I sort these things into the various piles (garage sale, trash, keep, store), I'm reminded of why I have them. They all have their own stories, and I could conceivably start another blog telling the tale of a different item each week (note to self: start another blog telling the tale of a different item each week).

But what I'm really reminded of, beyond the mountain of things, is the mountain of ideas. The same thing has happened here on this silly blog. I have all these things I want to write about, but for some reason I never do. Partly, it's because I want to refine the idea in my head before "committing" it to the blog. That's just silly.

I've whined several times about how I promise to do better about contributing to this thing, but this time I mean it! ;) I've got a backload of ideas to spew forth (some of them already half written drafts waiting to be published), so I'm not going to hold back anymore.

The next entries over the next week or so will probably seem totally out of order (especially the next one), but that's the price. My new goal is a quantifiable one: at least two posts a week. That should be pretty easy for the next couple of weeks, but the trick will be how I continue after that. Anyway, that's my thought for the moment. More to come.

Terrible Poker

So, the other day I was able to play poker with my friend Rich and his regular poker group. These are a bunch of married guys who play tournament style on the first Saturday of every month. Not only is there money for the tournament that night, but you can win points based on your finishing position. Rich does very well, and last year won the whole year on points.

I, on the other hand, have not played in over a year. This made me nervous, which is never a good way to play poker. Without going into what would be a long and boring story, suffice it to say I played terribly. It was just plain awful. I wasn't the first out, but only by a few minutes. I'm still glad I went, but it sucks when you don't have a job and you blow $50 playing poker. That voice inside your head keeps reminding you of bills, groceries, rent, etc.

But the real point of my post has to do with the aftermath. I decided to buy a book on poker (specifically Texas Hold 'Em) so that when I go next month (oh yes, I'll be back) I'll play at a respectable level. I just wanted something simple that covered the basic strategies, the lingo, and maybe talked a little about pot odds. A guy at the tournament had a tiny, pocket-sized Dummy's Guide to poker, and that would have been perfect.

I was unable to find that Dummy's Guide or even an Idiot's Guide that wasn't too expensive. But I did find an Everything book. Apparently, these are some sort of knock-off like the other two. It was less than $10, so it seemed perfect.

Well, it kinda sucks. I'm going to read the whole thing anyway, because I'm sure I'll pick up some useful information. Unfortunately, the book is constantly using hip poker lingo without really explaining it. Sometimes, it comes across as using it just to show how cool they are and how uncool I am for being confused. And that's another thing-- for being a helpful guide, it really isn't very helpful. Too often they gloss over things that I would have preferred to have explained more clearly.

But hey, it's just a dumb poker book. However, there was this one paragraph I read that just sent me over the top. My last post was about terrible writing on TV, so I couldn't let this one go without a comment here. Have you ever heard of a mixed metaphor? Well check this out:

Think of your hole cards as your new bar squeeze at closing time. The flop will sober you up quickly, and suddenly the squeeze can appear a lot different. Other times, your hole cards will stay true and faithful, but it's still a long way to that mountaintop where the pot of gold awaits. If you're still in there swinging, you want to be aggressive. The flop is no place for the faint of heart.

What the hell? That first sentence alone is probably wacky enough for a post, but then it just keeps going. "Okay, so my hole cards are like some chick I'm trying to pick up at the end of the night when I'm drunk and desperate, and when the last call lights come on she could end up being hideous or pretty, but then I have to go climbing and hope I find a leprechaun, because if I'm still at bat, I have to be brave." Huh? The whole book is like that. There's another quote I wanted to put in here, but I can't remember where it is. Basically, it was so overloaded with poker jargon as to be indecipherable. I guess that's to make the reader feel cool when he finally figures out what the writer is talking about.

Anyway, the bottom line is that I may need another poker book. Hopefully, I can find something cheap that isn't as ridiculous as this one. My goals for the next tournaments are on three levels. My primary goal for every tournament, I would like to do better than the previous one (that should be easy for March). My secondary goal is to make it to the final table. My tertiary goal is to win money. I expect to meet my primary goal every time, but I don't expect to meet the others for a few more tournaments at least. We shall see.

Terrible Writing

Although I like to think of myself as a writer, the fact is that I'm not. However, that doesn't stop me from having a critical eye when it comes to watching television or movie writing. I often criticize things for having "terrible" writing, so I thought maybe it was time I defined what I mean.

To me, terrible writing is any writing that calls attention to itself. It's conspicuous. Anytime you're watching something and you think, "That would never happen" or "No one would say that," then you're experiencing terrible writing. Now, to be fair, suspension of disbelief or strong likable characters can overcome those thoughts. In that case, it's more like bad writing that works, or a plot or characters that are so good, the little bad things don't hurt them.

I have a favorite quote from the movie The Rocketeer, as a director gives advice to a hapless young starlet: "Act, but don't act like you're acting." I believe the same applies to writing. If the viewer (or reader) forgets the writer by getting wrapped up in the story, you're doing a good job. Anything that reminds the audience there is a writer is bad.

So, I'm watching Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles yesterday. Honestly, I don't expect it to be good. But the first episode surprised me, and I thought it was quite good. The second episode, however... terrible.

The first infraction was admittedly minor, but it was so stupid it yanked me out of the show so hard I got whiplash. Young John Connor is working on some random electronic kit. He complains to his mom (the titular Sarah), "You got me the wrong needle-nosed pliers." She responds, "You said the red handled ones, right?" He holds up, gasp, blue handled pliers. Then they get in a little argument about why he isn't allowed to go outside.

What's wrong with this scene? The writer needed something to spark the argument. Grasping at straws, he decided Sarah bought the wrong tool, thereby also establishing John as a Radio Shack genius and his mom as unable to stop the blinking clock on the VCR. But "wrong needle-nosed pliers"? How many types of needle-nosed pliers are there? And seriously, the color of the handles makes a difference? I've used needle-nosed pliers with red, yellow, and black handles. That was the only difference between them. If he had said, "No, the kind with the bent tips on the end" or "These are regular pliers, I asked for needle-nose" I would've been fine with it (dumb as it is). But, those options would've taken a few seconds and not been as effective as the visual of holding up blue pliers. Terrible.

The next infraction was far more of a violation. I use that word both to reflect the seriousness, but also because it broke one of the laws established in the show. I mean, come on. It's only the second episode, and already you're breaking your own rules?

The rule is this: When traveling through time, only flesh can be transported. Clothes don't go through; weapons don't go through; the only reason the Terminators go through is because they're covered in human skin. At the end of the first show, John, Sarah, and Cameron (nice nod to the creator there) pop through a time bubble just as they explode the Terminator about to destroy them. They arrive in present day, naked, in the middle of a freeway. This provides a nice gag and some eye candy. No problem. In the second episode, we discover that when they blew up the Terminator, his head popped off and came with them through the time bubble. Which they had just said couldn't happen. It's another clear plot device (borrowed from a Star Trek: Next Generation episode) that allowed the writers to reassemble the Terminator. Boo. Terrible.

There were many other terrible things in that episode, but I just wanted to point out the two that bugged me the most. It stayed pretty consistently bad the whole time. To their credit, though, I thought the third episode was a little better. Being starved for new sci-fi (or new anything, these days), I'm willing to keep watching for now.