In Retrospect: The "X-Men" Series

PRIMAL DIFFERENCE: A LOOK BACK AT THE X-MEN ONSCREEN,

AND HOW THE FILMS EXPLORE THE CONCEPT OF THE OUTSIDER

by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Anna Paquin and Shawn Ashmore in "X2," the second film in the series

“Everyone has some experience or understanding of personal, spiritual, or cultural oppression.  And everyone also has some experience of being on the side of the oppressor.  We share a world—an existence.  If there is a God, that God put us together for a reason.  I cannot believe that reason was simply to kill one another.  If we’re going to learn to stop killing one another, then we must live together—not separately.  Wouldn’t you agree?”

That’s what Professor Charles Xavier tells us in Uncanny X-Men #417 (written by Chuck Austen) which perfectly explains the raison d’être for the X-Men comics and movies.  Set in a “not too distant future” where super-powered mutants (whose inborn abnormalities range from cakey blue fur to literal mind-reading) are hunted and hated by “normal” people, the first film channeled the series’ metaphors for racism, homophobia, and every other known form of prejudice.  It also captured the story’s bizarre and familiar world, a place where only Xavier’s X-Men (a posse of mutants who double as teachers and superheroes) strive to prove that two different species can occupy the same space without eviscerating each other.

            From scenes of mutants coming out of the closet and later being forcibly “cured,” you might gather that the X-Men’s adventures are definitely potent as an allegory.  Yet it’s something else about the series that keeps grabbing me by the collar.  The reason I keep re-watching the movies and combing dusty shelves for new, bright-colored tales is that on a primal level, “X-Men” personifies what it’s like to be different, in any shape or form.  Even without their powers, the mutants would stand out in a crowd—think of Rogue’s ornate gloves, Xavier’s flawlessly smooth skin, Jean Grey’s flaring red hair, or any other detail that betrays the fact that they are not ordinary people. 

This week , we'll see more extraordinary powers and fashions splashed across the big screen in director James Mangold's “The Wolverine," which takes the series farther into the future than ever before.  But whether or not you buy a ticket, you should take some time to learn about what’s come before.  Besides being colossally crowd pleasing, the X-Men movies all explore what it means to be an outsider, keeping their head and heart balanced, or at least on the same stage.

With that, I give you….

X-MEN A man awakens in a silvery smooth room and flees to an expansive, expressionless hallway.  But everywhere he runs, he hears voices—someone is chasing him.  How is it possible that he could be safe here? 

And yet he is.  The man is the clawed mutant called Logan or “Wolverine” (Hugh Jackman) and he’s in Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, the one place where mutants can learn to master their powers, safe from the searching eye of the outer, human world.  In this film, Logan and his fellow runaway Marie (whose power prevents her from touching people), are our guides to this sanctuary, but their friendship is the true root of the film.  When she first sees him caught in a bar brawl, her round eyes pop with fear, yet she stows away in his truck, spurred by an animal recognition of another outsider.  They get separated after a mad tumble in the snow, but in the aftermath of the film’s edge-seater climax, the two friends are reunited high above the white city lights of New York, and it’s there that Logan holds Marie, eyes closed over the tired grooves in his face.

X2 Logan kisses Jean Grey before a neon stairway.  Pyro stares dimly at his face, reflected in someone else’s framed family photos.  Magneto conducts the pieces of his cell through a symphony of shattering.  Marie and Bobby “Iceman” grasp hands while murderous noises scream in their heads.  Do these moments sound beautiful to you?  They are, but not in the more delicate sense of the word.  Director Bryan Singer may have kept everything neat and small in “X-Men,” but here he pushes each frame to a visual and emotional breaking point, drowning you in rage, passion, and unchecked grief. 

So why, in a film series reputed for being intensely cerebral, does “X2” work to engage us via such overwhelming emotions?  To convince you of one key point, I believe. Throughout the first film, the murderous Magneto (Ian McKellen) murmured that a war was brewing between mutants and humans, and the prospect thrilled even better men like Logan—it would, after all, provide them with a reason to strike back at a hateful society with justification.  But the true nature of war is brutally yanked into perspective at the climax of this movie, when a woman sacrifices herself to save the X-Men.  As an onslaught of white, foaming waves surges toward them, she utilizes eons of untapped, orange-hued power to save their lives, losing herself in the process and showing her friends what it would really mean to fight Magneto’s uncompromising, flat-minded battle.  It’s a brutal lesson to learn and yet somehow, everything turns out all right in the end, even if we are left cliff-hanging over green-tinged waters.  

X-MEN: THE LAST STAND It was May 26, 2006.  I was on a field trip to the formally beautiful Portland Chinese garden, but I couldn’t think about anything except the arrival of this climactic new X-Men movie.  I’d spent weeks reviewing the first two films and reading about “The Last Stand” and how its director, Brett Ratner (who had replaced the absent Mr. Singer on short notice), hoped to create a conclusion to the trilogy that gelled with its previous tales.

In some ways, he did.  And yet “The Last Stand” still feels alien to its companions.  It bleaches the series’ shadowy sets with stark brightness, wiping away the vividly raw and dirty sheen of “X2”; slips in anti-humorous crass jokes with embarrassing regularity (a security guard’s declaration of, “I’ll spray you in the face, bitch,” perfectly exemplifies the film’s concept of verbal dexterity); and carelessly condenses stories fraught with regret and confusion in the previous films (like the broken friendship between Iceman and Pyro) into snot-spraying battles of good vs. evil. 

            When the movie came out, I was horrified by these betrayals, and I still am—repeat viewings can’t change the fact that “The Last Stand” is high-polish studio trash.  But I wouldn’t wish the film out of existence, not only because raging and wrestling over it has become an inescapable part of the X-Men experience, but because it does possess moments of genuine cinematic grandeur.  The picture’s theme is the misuse of power, and it’s perfectly personified by the deranged goddess Phoenix (Famke Janssen).  In a scene that Mr. Ratner and the editors (Mark Goldblatt, Mark Helfrich and Julia Wong) execute perfectly, Phoenix rises from the opaque depths of Alkali Lake, but here’s the trick—we never actually see her stepping into view.  There’s just a swirl of liquid, a propulsive burst of light and suddenly, she’s standing there, by the water’s edge. 

X-MEN ORIGINS: WOLVERINE I’ve heard “Wolverine” referred to as a dark fable, and so it is: it’s the tale of how the Wolverine got his claws.  In this grimly thrilling prequel (which was directed by Gavin Hood), Logan’s character deepens as we see different sides of him due to the ever-shifting company he keeps.  His brother Victor (Liev Schreiber) always calls him “Jimmy” and provokes his animalistic rage; a series of sidekicks, including John Wraith (the soft-spoken Will.i.am) and Remy LeBeau (Taylor Kitsch, sporting awesomely wild hair and a very cool fedora hat), spark Logan’s more genially macho, beer-catching spirit; and the love of his life, Kayla Silverfox (Lynn Collins, in a touching performance) breaks through his posturing so successfully that they end up living together in the Canadian Rockies.

            Even in those peaceful moments, Logan remains a hero of superfluous masculinity—his righteous rage is often a pretense for gratuitous killings.  But while the movie (which explodes with the energy of its score, by the great Harry Gregson-Williams) relishes Logan’s leather-jacketed, motorcycling manliness, it confronts the pitfalls of his aggressive nature by revealing how susceptible it leaves him to manipulation.  Like Leonard Shelby in “Memento,” Logan learns the hard way that the easy fulfillment of revenge is always too good to be true.

            The most striking thing about the film, however, is how it relates to the previous “X-Men” pictures, in both logical and movingly ironic ways.  When Logan is on the run, an old couple welcomes him into their home and though all his memories of that event are erased by the movie’s end, it is easy to imagine that an echo or shadow of the encounter inspired our hero to help Marie in “X-Men.”  And then there’s Victor.  We all know that in the future Logan will beat him to a pulp on top of the Statue of Liberty, but here there’s just a touch of sad sweetness in their bond.  “We can never be done, Jimmy,” Victor tells Logan.  “We’re brothers, and brothers protect each other.” 

X-MEN: FIRST CLASS The “X-Men” movies are perpetually underestimated—no one fully grasps the apocalyptic implications of Mr. Singer’s artistry and most people blatantly refused to see the depth in “Wolverine,” which is a little astonishing since part of this franchise’s power lies in its bent towards cutting directness, rather than sly implication (“Why not stay in disguise all the time?” the demonic Nightcrawler asks the shapeshifting Mystique in “X2.”  “Because we shouldn’t have to,” she replies).

            And yet, this latest installment may have been overestimated.  Set in the 1960s, when Xavier (James McAvoy) and Magneto (Michael Fassbender) are first forming their rival factions, the movie is painfully unaffecting—director Matthew Vaughn (who did more richly romantic and humorous work on the 2007 fantasy “Stardust”) and cinematographer John Mathiesen merge the movie’s many plazas into one flatly sunlit square, in which the mutants clash with a playboy tyrant (played with a wonderfully sleazy smile by Kevin Bacon) who just wants to blow up the world just for kicks.  In other words, this is a film stripped of the series’ emotional gravity; for all his talent, Mr. Vaughn seems to recite “X-Men” without really knowing it.

            The frivolousness of this narrative packaging is undeniable, but if the film glides along airily, it does so in a smooth, pleasurable fashion, knitted together by well-considered visual motifs, from a Nazi coin to a paired-up gun and beer tube.  Yet therein lies the problem—the movie’s narrative is so delicately constructed that there’s no room for the mad emotional fire that could have made its components not only weld together but sing with operatic intensity, as the films in this relentlessly durable series so often do.

 

Movie Review: "Only God Forgives" (Nicolas Winding Refn, 2013)

WELCOME, PLEASE GO AWAY: NIC REFN'S "ONLY" IS NO TREAT FOR HIS FANS
by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

Above: Ryan Gosling with Refn

If like me, you go to view “Only God Forgives” in the hope once again being hypnotized by Ryan Gosling’s silent presence, you will be disappointed.  While Mr. Gosling does play Julian, the film’s criminal protagonist, writer-director Nicolas Winding Refn is far more interested in the character of Chang.  Why?  I’m not exactly sure.  Chang (played by Vithaya Pansringarm) is hardly a complex figure.  Though he is technically a Bangkok police officer, his brand of justice is thuggish.  He walks smoothly and carries a sword, which is frequently used to kill and torture his victims and that, more or less, is what the film is about—a man dispensing cruel justice. 

If watching that sounds like your idea of a good time, be my guest.  But I found “Only God Forgives” to be sickening, pointless, and surprisingly boring.  To be sure, this is an unexpected disappointment—after all, it was only a year and a half ago that Mr. Refn and Mr. Gosling first united to make the stunningly beautiful film “Drive.”  But even though motifs from that film resurface in the new one to good effect, they can’t save it from degenerating into a stupidly nasty exercise.

Thankfully, the film has the flicker of a moral conscience.  Julian, though prone to violent outbursts, has some sense of right and wrong.  When his brother Billy is murdered, our “hero” sets out to find and kill the man responsible.  But when he learns the reason behind his brother’s murder, Julian spares the murderer’s life.  This provokes Julian’s mother Crystal (Kristin Scott Thomas) to take up the quest to avenge Billy herself, setting in motion a series of horrific events that will leave much of the cast dead by the time the credits roll.

In some ways, the presence of Crystal feels intrusive.  With her dyed blonde hair and crude observations about her son’s anatomy, she enters this shadowy film like a bright and gaudy light.  But that’s par for Refn, who allowed the romantic scenes of “Drive” to be interrupted by Albert Brooks’ performance as a crass gangster.  “Only God Forgives” features a similar balance—when Crystal is off-screen, the film lapses into silence and we’re allowed to gaze into Mr. Gosling’s eyes and wonder just what he might be thinking.  The silence is especially evocative in a scene where Julian stares at a prostitute who’s cloaked behind a curtain of glowing red beads.  A few times he gets up and approaches her, but then the film abruptly cuts back to a shot of him sitting slumped in his booth.  So is he dreaming about walking up to this woman or actually doing it?  I didn’t know while watching the scene and I didn’t care—the moment is so quietly surreal that it manages to evoke a strange longing that you want to last forever.

Ultimately, it’s hard to read Julian.  But I would guess that Mr. Refn and Mr. Gosling intended him to be a fairly decent person who resists and then feels obliged to help his mother in her quest for revenge.  That’s why he challenges Chang to a fight, which takes place in a massive, featureless warehouse.  I thought it was a fine fight, made potent by the fact that Julian seems so helpless against Chang’s calm strength, but by then the movie had almost completely lost me.  Had Mr. Refn delved deeper into Julian’s character, he might have been able to instill the film with some emotional weight.  But instead he focuses on Chang’s cruelty, which is awful to behold but also dully repetitive.  In one scene for example, Chang proceeds to interrogate a man through the use of various sharp objects.  It’s a pattern—he picks up one, uses it, asks a question, doesn’t get an answer, then picks up another one.  It’s so gross and boring that I found myself wincing and groaning at the same time. 

In the hours since I left the screening of “Only God Forgives” which I attended, those horrible images have stayed with me.  But so has the sneaking suspicion that maybe Mr. Refn never intended the film to be enjoyable.  If nothing else the man is ambitious, so it seems feasible that he wanted to create some kind of avant garde meditation on the nature of violence.  But shouldn’t art offer some pleasure?  I think so.  In terms of excusing the lesser works of great filmmakers, we have to draw the line somewhere. 

Of course if you care about Mr. Refn’s work, then you probably feel obligated to see his latest work.  But what made “Drive” such a wonderful movie was that it became a beautifully tragic love story, of a man who falls for and loses the girl of his dreams when he resorts to violence to protect her.  There is something beautiful about that sacrifice and Mr. Refn seems to have forgotten that beauty in film can be a wonderful thing because in “Only God Forgives,” there is no sweetness—there is only death and cruelty.  “I fucked up,” Crystal tells Julian near the film’s end when she sees him covered in blood after his battle with Chang.  But by then it is too late for apologies, or even, dare I say it, forgiveness.

Movie Review: "Pacific Rim" (Guillermo del Toro, 2013)

TEETERING ON THE "RIM":

DEL TORO'S "PACIFIC" BALANCES ACTION AND HUMANITY

by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

 Above: Rinko Kikuchi, Idris Elba, and Charlie Hunnam battle to save humanity
 

If you are a regular moviegoer, you’ve probably had a hard time forgetting the poster for the new sci-fi blockbuster “Pacific Rim”—a massive robot, staking its fist on the ocean shore.  It’s a powerfully hulking image, and yet strangely enough, it is not androids who make the movie into reasonably reliable summer entertainment.  No, it is the warriors who pilot the ‘bots—Beckett (Charlie Hunnam), a disheveled, easygoing fellow; Mako (Rinko Kikuchi), his immaculate and innocent partner in battle; and Marshall (Idris Elba), their commanding officer.  If none of these characters are as wonderfully complex as Peter Parker or Bruce Wayne, they are still charming and emotionally troubled enough that they effectively draw us into the movie’s bombastic world, a world dominated by Kaiju.

            But what are Kaiju?  According to the film, they Godzilla-like monsters who enter our world from the ocean floor but are actually from an alternate dimension.  They run rampant for years, launching assaults on San Francisco, Sydney, and Hong Kong, forcing humanity to take up arms by building the massive robotic suits (which are called, “Jaegers”) that Beckett, Mako, and Marshall will ultimately pilot into a battle to save Earth. 

            As I watched Beckett first suiting up to fight, I wasn’t sure whether to go giddy or groan.  I loved the early shots of him stepping into that massive robot, I felt a surge of excitement, especially since it was accompanied by a rock-synth score by Ramin Djawadi (who did similarly smashing work on “Iron Man”).  I also liked Beckett’s voiceover about how even though he was a great Jaeger pilot, he’d never been a terrific athlete.  I couldn’t help smiling at the thought that director Guillermo del Toro might be envisioning a futuristic nerd paradise in which a gang of slender geeks and their robots nobly accept the task of saving mankind. 

            Still, something bothered me.  At the beginning, Beckett pilots his Jaeger with the help of his brother.  As they prepare to take on the Kaiju, they exchange mild witticisms, enjoying each other’s companionship, some much so that I immediately knew that one of them was going to die.  Because in action movies, the brother or best friend is always expendable.  He’s not the protagonist and he’s not a beautiful woman, so his sole purpose is usually to expire and thereby inspire the hero to take revenge.  To say the least, this narrative is a tired trope, one that has been worn out by everything from “Speed” to “The Lone Ranger.”  Those films never really believed in the death of these characters; they simply used tragedy as a device to move things forward.  The same is true of “Pacific Rim” and this is just one example of the film’s stumbling blocks, which include convoluted action and a lack of character development.

            In other words, “Pacific Rim” exists several artistic notches below a fully-formed emotional saga like “The Dark Knight Rises.”  And yet somehow, it never tumbles into the realm of meaningless bombast occupied so agonizingly by recent films like “Man of Steel.”  The war with the Kaiju may be a battle of brute force, but Mr. del Toro makes you care about the people fighting it.  The chaste, sweet flirtation between Beckett and Mako (she nervously peeks into his room in a very funny moment) gives us something to latch onto and care about, as does Marshall’s stoic dignity, which conceals his deep compassion.  So when it comes time for a final Kaiju-Jaeger slug-out on the Pacific Ocean floor, the sonic booming of the fight almost deafens and desensitizes you but it’s too late for the film to fail—you’re already hooked on the human drama, even if it is slight.

            There are other reasons to see “Pacific Rim.”  Mr. del Toro furnishes the film with supreme visual style (especially in his colorfully rainy depiction of Hong Kong), packing it with cartoonish touches that feel just right.  In this world, jittery scientists wear bow ties and square glasses while the wealthiest criminals can afford shades and noisy, metal-plated shoes.  But as delightful as Mr. del Toro’s brand of charming goofiness is, it’s the way he mixes humanity and action that keeps the movie on course.  This is especially true in the case of Mako, who wants revenge because she watched her family slaughtered by Kaiju when she just a kid.  Thus, it’s a powerful moment when high above the planet she shouts, “For my family!” before unsheathing a robotic sword to slay one of the vile beasts.  It’s a freakishly cool display of weaponry, but it’s her declaration of vengeance that makes it powerful. 

Her words may not be profound but somehow, they’re enough. 

Movie Review: "The Lone Ranger" (Gore Verbinski, 2013)

OUT OF RANGE, BUT CLOSE:

"THE LONE RANGER" ALMOST HITS THE MARK
by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

 

Above: Bojan Bazelli's beautiful cinematography is one of the film's major merits

 

If you’ve attended a screening of “Iron Man 3,” “Star Trek Into Darkness,” or “Man of Steel,” you’ve probably felt what I have—a sensation that 2013 blockbuster movies are having trouble spinning satisfyingly swashbuckling tales.  For me, the new Disney Western “The Lone Ranger” doesn’t convince otherwise, but it does have some truly exciting moments, like a scene where district attorney John Reid (Arnie Hammer) and his brother-in-arms Tonto (Johnny Depp) run across a train’s rooftop, desperate to stop it from crashing.  For a second, you forget that neither character is very well developed and just enjoy the sensation of seeing these men race against time and the odds.

            Of course, character development is precisely the problem with “The Lone Ranger.”  Despite aspirations to entertain, the film’s energy deflates in its tale of how the two protagonists became adventurers.  Both of them lead lives steeped in tragedy.  Reid is determined to hunt down the villainous Butch Cavendish, an outlaw who slaughtered his brother, while Tonto hates Cavendish for an entirely different reason—he once made the mistake of trusting the man, leading to a horrific massacre.  So when Tonto stumbles upon a wounded Reid in the dusty dessert, he joins forces with him, hoping to destroy their common enemy.

            All things considered, Cavendish is not much of a villain.  Disfigured and mean-spirited, he comes off as gross and irritating rather than menacing.  Director Gore Verbinski attempts to compensate by staging would-be shocking scenes where Cavendish cruelly threatens churchgoers, but these moments are more tawdry than they are shocking.  The other characters are not much better.  Whiny and weak-willed, Reid spends the majority of the film resisting Tonto’s crazed, otherworldly persona, leading to a series of one-note protests.  Tonto responds by uttering vaguely demented pronouncements that are neither funny nor profound.  “A bird cannot tell time,” he declares midway through the film, before walking away from his friend.  It’s clearly meant to be a pointed moment, but I couldn’t tell if this line was meant to be a deep metaphor or some kind of joke.

            In essence, this line is like the film itself—muddled.  There are elements of corporate politics and supernatural fantasy in the plot, but all of them are ambiguous.  That’s why it’s a relief when the movie breaks out of confusion and into action.  The fight scenes may be disappointingly few and far between, but they are smashingly entertaining and impressively coherent.  The opening train battle is a highlight, a duel of wits that transpires on both couplings and inside cargo chambers.  But the climax, despite being dehumanizingly over the top, is fun as well.  It features two trains careening towards a canyon, while Reid and Tonto make destructive mischief.  Such is life for the heroes of a film directed by Mr. Verbinski, who made his name concocting similar hi-jinks in the “Pirates of the Caribbean” trilogy.

            Ultimately, I enjoyed “The Lone Ranger,” but I still think it could have been more.  More what, you ask?  More of a comedy.  Seriousness can certainly benefit a character-driven action film, but Tonto and Reid aren’t characters—they are undefined archetypes of eccentricity and heroism, respectively, and even though the film gives them motivations for their actions, it doesn’t expand their personalities.  And what is an action film without a personality?  Not much, I can tell you.  How can you invest in and be truly thrilled by the adventure when you’re not interested in its participating heroes?

            I don’t mean to be overly critical.  Mr. Verbinski’s film is exciting and evening occasionally beautiful (like in a scene where a white horse stands alone on a dusty cliff).  But it also feels strangely out of tune.  Just look at its framing device, in which an older Tonto explains his story to a young boy in a circus museum.  It’s rather sad and weird, but it also doesn’t quite make sense.  I watched it and was intrigued by it but I couldn’t help thinking that with the help of deeper writing and sharper editing, I might have been grabbed as well, swept into a world of adventure.  Ultimately, I don’t know if “The Lone Ranger” was intended to be comedy or tragedy, but it seems it never knew itself.  Maybe it couldn’t have ever, but there’s no way to be certain.

Movie Review: "Much Ado About Nothing" (Joss Whedon, 2013)

MUCH ADO AND MODERNITY: JOSS WHEDON
ADAPTS A SHAKESPEARE CLASSIC by Bennett Campbell Ferguson

 Above: Amy Acker and Alexis Denisof in the film

In William Shakespeare’s profoundly hilarious play “Much Ado About Nothing,” readers are treated to a number of spectacles—romance, treachery, true love, buffoonery, and above all, wittily grievous misunderstandings.  All this can be found in the newest film version of the play, which was directed by Joss Whedon.  In part, Mr. Whedon has updated the story by moving it to the present day (the formerly Elizabethan characters are now armed with sleek iPods and silver handguns) but that change is mostly cosmetic.  The only really surprising alternation is the inclusion of something new—flashbacks. 

The film begins with one, in which a young soldier named Benedick (Alexis Denisof) abandons his lover Beatrice (Amy Acker), setting up a lifetime of good-natured sparring that will lead them back into each other’s arms, this time for good.  Of course, no such scene occurred in the play.  Yet all the same, I wish there had been more of these moments in the movie.  Mr. Whedon’s adaptation is sometimes awkwardly talkative and the glimpses in the past briefly free it from the constraints of quiet chatter.  They are inspired moments and a few more of them would have let the movie really breathe and live a life of its own, beyond Shakespeare’s wondrous work.  But let me back up a moment.  While Mr. Whedon’s “Much Ado” is not perfect, it is also perfectly amiable.  In returning to such an eternally witty and moving story, he has created a film that works as both a chronicle of good-natured hi-jinks and poignant romance.  And if the result is not a definitive adaptation, it is certainly one that contributes something unique to the play’s legend.

For the uninitiated, “Much Ado About Nothing” is the story of a Prince and his comrades who, fresh from the war, spend a few very eventful days at the manor of the respected nobleman Leonato.  In Mr. Whedon’s film, the manor becomes a stark Los Angeles mansion and Leonato (who is played by the delightfully chameleonic Clark Gregg) dresses in well-trimmed business suits.  So do the returning soldiers he welcomes into his home—the Prince (Reed Diamond), Claudio (Fran Kranz), and Benedick.  Of course, the story involves more than post-war bromance.  The visit quickly heats up into a battle of the sexes, as Benedick bickers with Amy Acker’s Beatrice (while their friends conspire to make them fall in love) and Claudio falls in love with Leonato’s daughter Hero, before ultimately crushing her with his boyish wrath.

This tangle of characters and conflicts contains many familiar moments—the masked ball where the Prince woos Hero in Claudio’s name; Claudio and Hero’s ill-fated wedding; and above all, the eavesdropping scenes in which Beatrice and Benedick each become convinced that the other is madly in love with them.  To say the least, Mr. Whedon’s interpretation of these moments is more mild than Kenneth Branagh’s sumptuous 1993 film adaptation of the play.  Whereas Mr. Branagh’s version featured a trumpeting orchestral score by Patrick Doyle played throughout, Mr. Whedon’s music (which he composed himself) is effective but mostly used only to transition from scene to scene.  As a result, his version feels a little quieter, a little milder, and somewhat less passionate.

And yet, he breathes life once more into those iconic moments.  The masked ball splits between a crowded courtyard and a quietly smooth swimming pool, a choice that enriches the scene with both giddy romance and serene menace.  Then on the other end of the spectrum, Benedick’s eavesdropping scene begins with a delightful prologue—the man jogging up and down a stone staircase while delivering a monologue about his aversion to marriage.  It’s a tribute to the relaxed spontaneity of the film and to Mr. Denisof’s performance that this moment feels not like a strange clashing of Shakespeare’s Elizabethan England and Twenty-First Century America, but a perfectly normal moment.  Perhaps because the film’s white walls and sloping grounds feel rather otherworldly to begin with, the delivery of lines such as, “Ha!  The Prince and Monsieur Love!  I will hide me in the arbor” feels completely natural.  There’s even a moment in which the Prince, irked by Claudio’s flamboyant speech, shoots him a look that clearly says, “Good sir, you are quite overdoing it.”  It’s a clever scene, one that not only eases the story into the present era, but also separates Mr. Whedon’s version from Mr. Branagh’s.

            Yet aside from this moment, “Much Ado” is almost rigorously faithful to its source.  They are long scenes in which the romances of the heroes and heroines and debated and while Shakespeare’s dialogue is more than exquisite, the film feels rather overstuffed with chatter.  It’s not the slow pacing of the film that’s problematic—it’s that long sequences of dialogue are allowed to play uninterrupted.  The talk may be lively, but there’s so much of it that at times the film actually feels a little boring.  Despite being a Shakespeare lover, I found myself squirming from time to time in my seat at Cinema 21, eager to move onto the next scene.

            That said, better to have squirmed and stayed than squirmed and left.  Mr. Whedon’s movie might not be as sweetly exhilarating as Mr. Branagh’s, but it is still a terrific and touching piece of entertainment.  This version of “Much Ado” might not be perfect, but it is often satisfying original.  And even when it’s not, it’s still wonderful.  As I watched, I found myself eager to hear certain exchanges delivered, and they were all present.  “For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?” Benedick asks Beatrice late in the film.  Her response, as always, is perfect: “For them all together.” :)