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Interview: Agnès Varda Talks Career and Blending Fiction and Nonfiction

We spoke with Varda about her career-long dedication to hybridizing fiction and documentary and her recent seminars in Chicago.



Interview: Agnès Varda Talks Career and Blending Fiction and Nonfiction
Photo: Cinelicious Pics

Agnès Varda has the spirit and strength of a hundred filmmakers. At 87, she’s not reclining on a beach or receding into the shadows of retirement, but exploring her “cinematic life,” as she calls it, with an intensive level of rigor and determination. Currently in Chicago leading a guided tour of her previous work and offering insights into her cinematic philosophy, Varda consistently speaks about filmmaking as both a form of self-exploration and a window of (re)discovery for viewers of all ages.

On Friday, October 16, her films Jane B. par Agnes V. and Kung-Fu Master! open at the Lincoln Plaza Cinemas in New York for a one-week run. Jane B. is an almost indefinable film, playing out as a simultaneously sincere and satirical portrait of Jane Birkin, both as cultural icon and woman. Varda’s not joking, however, about the ways women are typically asked to understand themselves after turning 40. Both films are unchained pleas for a truly progressive cinema, both in form and content.

I spoke with Varda about her career-long dedication to hybridizing fiction and documentary, her recent seminars in Chicago, and why, if you live in New York, you’ll have to run, not walk, to see these re-releases.

How did you come to make these two films? Where did the idea come from?

Jane Birkin and I went on a walk and she said, “I’m about to be 40. This is terrible.” And I said, “Oh no no. Forty is the best age for a woman. You are totally a woman, you have been doing things. You have kids. You are beautiful. That’s the exact age where a portrait should be made about you.” So that’s the reason for Jane B. par Agnes V. Then I tried to find the shape of that portrait. And the shape is original, because it was composed, as you know, from films that don’t exist.

Did you intend these films to be viewed as a pair? I can’t imagine watching one without the other.


I think you can see Jane B. alone, because Kung-Fu Master! came out of Jane B. The title [of Kung-Fu Master!] in France is Le Petit Amour, but the American title is very bad because people think it’s a kung-fu film. But Kung-Fu Master! is the name of the video game. In the middle of the shooting for Jane B., [Birkin] said, “I would love to make a scene and a story like this.” But it couldn’t be a sketch. It was too important to the psychology; we couldn’t do it in only five minutes. I couldn’t add it to the other sketches, so it had to be a full film.

You’ve spoken extensively about motherhood and feminism. Did you approach these films thinking about aging as it relates to motherhood, perhaps wanting to make a film with Mathieu [Varda’s son] to explore this further?

It’s not about motherhood, but it was interesting for us that Jane could be with her two daughters and I could be with my son. At the same time, the films were like private jokes. They became about our private enjoyment. And then there are the good actors: Charlotte [Gainsbourg] became a star, as you know; Lou is a wonderful woman who sings and acts; and Mathieu became a film director. So, these kids were still kids, but they all became involved with film after.

I’m interested in the idea of this being a family project, a kind of personal documentary. Your whole career you’ve talked about synthesizing documentary and fiction.

Ah, you’ve got it right. In Jane B., it’s a mixture. But the mixture is its claim. Because when you ask an actress what films she’s done, she always shows you a piece of what she has done and then she speaks. So it allows me to mix fiction and documentary. Which is, as you know, one of my aims, to rock the boat gently, from one side to the other.

Does your interest in putting yourself within the film come from this overlap between the two?


In the film with Jane, she’s questioning me. “How do I perform these little pieces?” Almost like it’s a puzzle. So, yes, sometimes we are together discussing the fiction. It’s like being in the film, making the film, and making a portrait of Jane Birkin, which is also, vaguely, a portrait of me.

I wonder about that last point. How much correlation is there between Agnès Varda in the film and Agnès Varda in real life?

I think it’s the same. It just shows a part of my life, a part of my thoughts. But it doesn’t come to my private life. It deals with my cinematic life in which, sometimes, I expose myself as the filmmaker.

I’m interested in this cinematic life and how it relates to other films. You said in a 1986 interview with Film Quarterly that you had not spoken with a female, American director who understood cinécriture, or cinematic writing. Has that changed since then?

I’m surprised you say that, because I never criticize other people, especially when they try to do their own thing. I was recently speaking about Maya Deren. She had such an original, deep, and artistic cine-writing. I don’t think I’ve said bad things like that. The one I don’t like too much, though, and who was making films like men would, is the actress Ida Lupino. She worked, but I don’t think she had cine-writing. Her films looked like other American films. But take Maya Deren or Barbara Kopple for example. I think they have their own writing—the cine-writing which is, as I always say, a vision of choices. Always true. It’s not the way you write the dialogue, it’s not what you choose to shoot in: 16, 35, black and white, color, whatever. Documentary, fiction, or both. But I think by saying cine-writing, there are about 20 choices that end up being the style of the film. Sometimes a film is written in the editing room, et cetera. So it’s my way of saying how to make statement.

How has this informed your experience teaching at the European Graduate School?


I never taught there, actually.

No? The website says you’re a professor.

What I do there is what I’m doing here in Chicago. Because they know that I have three lives: as a photographer, as a filmmaker, and as a visual artist. I have an exhibition here at the Logan Center. It’s the gallery at the University of Chicago, in which I have my installations. Beautiful setup. I speak and I have excerpts of my pieces, my films, my installations. I introduce my films in this really huge theater and, a little later, I do a Q&A and discuss my exhibition with students. So I’m on duty for the whole week. And I’m enjoying it, because it’s a delightful duty to talk about films. I met with some students yesterday. Some of them told me about their projects and I was able to give them feedback. It’s very interesting, because I learn about how audiences react, in different stages, to different criteria and situations. It’s been an incredible treat.

What kinds of advice are you giving to young filmmakers who want to make challenging films or works that could be called cinécriture?

I explain to them that when I shoot films myself, it’s because I want the freedom of editing, imagination. I want to show how I do the music. In Vagabond, I use music against the rules. I discuss music, editing, writing, and commentary with them. So, I have excerpts that I choose according to what I say or to the questions, because it’s easy to state, but it’s also better to show pieces that make sense to me so the students understand better, maybe, my aims and my way of working. It’s a very nice exercise. It doesn’t teach me, but it brings to me how people of different ages react, especially young people. Students of filmmaking. They come to me and they want to listen and they’re surprised because maybe it’s not the way they thought. It’s very interesting for me, because I’m always trying to understand how, when I do a shot or an edit, it will be taken by young people, 35-year-olds, or people of my age. I have to learn something about how to behave as a filmmaker. And I’m not yet bored. I was invited by Dominique Bluher, a cinema teacher here. She organized my video and told me I could have an exhibition. I feel like I’m really myself with all these questions of cinema, photography, and exhibition. So I feel good. I’m sorry you couldn’t see that, besides the fact that my films are opening.

Do you have anything to say about the films opening in New York?


My films open at the Lincoln Plaza, but for one week only. That’s amazing. If they want to see them, they have to run. If not, the films will be gone. This is a very small street opening. That’s the way it is. It’s a one-week shot.

There’s a line from Jane B. that sticks with me, regarding film aesthetics. You tell Jane at one point, “I prefer daydreams to psychology.” Has daydreaming, or feelings related to it, been one of the driving mechanisms for your films?

I don’t exactly know, because I’m not into organizing too much what it stands to do. When I say I’m not interested in psychology, I exaggerate, because I work a lot on behavior, like I did in Vagabond. With Jane, I have to go through her psychology, because if I can define her, there’s a point where she says she wants to be famous and alone. At that point, she’s said something contradictory. And it’s the same for me. I’m a modest filmmaker, because I do very modest films. And also I’m very happy to be known, because I need people to come and see my films. And to love me. So, the need for being recognized and loved is, at the same, a need to remain discreet and working on the margins. Do you understand me?

Yes, of course. It makes sense, especially with the way Jane B. plays out.

Thank you, thank you for telling me what I say makes sense. Because I often speak to people that don’t see. I have so many things to say when I speak, and it’s very frustrating. You’ve seen my film The Beaches of Agnès, yes? It brings together my need to be a little alone, but mostly speak about other people, to express life through other people, other events, other discoveries. I try to understand how people are different in other places of the world. I have tried to put together a way of living as a filmmaker.



Interview: Jia Zhang-ke on Ash Is Purest White and the Evolution of China

Jia discusses what he likes about digital video and how Zhao Tao helped bring her role to life.



Jia Zhang-ke
Photo: Cohen Media Group

Unshowy yet unshakably self-assured, sincere but with glimpses of a sly sense of humor, and unhesitatingly frank even about touchy topics like the Chinese government’s censorship of his work, Jia Zhang-ke comes off in person just as a fan of his films might expect. Ever since his 1997 feature debut, The Pickpocket, and 2000’s Platform, in which young people struggle to adapt to China’s increasing Westernization, Jia has been creating a kind of unofficial history of his homeland, quietly defying his government’s determination to erase its tracks as it barrels along by doing things like rewiring the economy, rewriting the social contract, and depopulating whole cities and erecting new ones in a matter of months.

Jia’s films operate in metaphorical deep focus, surfacing the ways that these sweeping societal changes affect individual lives and relationships by zeroing in on sensitively detailed portrayals of two lovers, or of a group or pair of friends, while just as clearly portraying the socioeconomic backdrops to their stories. And often at the center of his films is Zhao Tao, his wife and longtime muse. In Jia’s latest, Ash Is Purest White, Zhao reprises the role she played in 2002’s Unknown Pleasures: Qiao Qiao, a strong-willed woman from Jia’s hometown of Fenyang, this time over a span of 17 years that starts when she’s the young lover of a gangster and ends with her in charge of the gambling den he once ran.

In a conversation before Ash Is Purest White’s debut at the New York Film Festival, Jia explained what he likes about digital video, how Zhao Tao helped bring her role to life, and how he deals with his government’s suppression of his work.

The music in your films is always an important part of the story. Can you talk about how you picked the songs for this one, starting with “Y.M.C.A.”?

Since I wanted to set the story starting in 2001, I wanted to find a piece of music that can trigger that particular era very authentically. And back in the day, in 2001, the younger generation, they didn’t have a lot of sources of entertainment. They might have had a disco club and karaoke, and that was about it. Two songs very popular at that time were “Y.M.C.A.” and “Go West” [the Pet Shop Boys song that was a motif in Jia’s Mountains May Depart].

The reason that we liked “Y.M.C.A.” was not because we understood the lyrics or understood who sang them or who was involved in the production. We had no idea what they were singing about. But we did enjoy the rhythm, the melody, and the beat, which is matching the heartbeat of the young people. It really got you going and brought up the energy of the room.


Another song that is particularly important in the film—you hear it again and again—is “Drunk for Life” by Sally Yeh, a Cantonese pop singer. This is a song I listened to when I was in junior high. At the time, young people tended to hang out in the video arcade, and this was one of the songs heard there. It was also a theme song for John Woo’s The Killer. That film, in the triad genre, is very similar to the John Woo motif that I want to evoke in this film.

The third song in this film is “How Much Love Can Be Repeated?” This sequence was actually shot 12 years ago in Three Gorges, when I made Still Life. I think the reason why I wanted to use it was that it could create this interesting contrast between what was happening on stage and Zhao’s character off stage, when you see her reaction watching this performance. Mind you, the on-stage part was shot 12 years ago, but Zhao’s part was shot last year. Hopefully, you cannot tell that these two footages were from two different times and spaces.

Was any of the other Three Gorges footage shot for Still Life, or shot when you were making that film? I know you shot a lot of documentary footage there at the time.

Only that particular clip was shot 12 years ago. The rest, we went back to the same location and tried to capture what we did in Still Life. But, unlike in other parts of the film, where we tend to use digital video, for the Three Gorges part we use film stock. That’s why it gives you a sense of nostalgia, evoking what happened in the past.

You’ve worked in digital video for a long time, partly because it allowed you to bypass processing labs, which would not have developed your films because they weren’t government-approved. Digital video also made it much easier for your films to be copied and disseminated in China when they weren’t being played in theaters. Are there also things that you prefer artistically about using digital video, especially now that it can do so much more than it could early on?

Starting in 2001, using DV to shoot Unknown Pleasures, I didn’t think of it just for practical purposes. DV as a medium has its own aesthetics that I can really explore and develop. Using DV you can create a close proximity between the camera and the actors and actresses, a kind of intimacy that cannot be done through the traditional camera.


The other thing is, things that happen unexpectedly can be easily captured with DV cameras. With cameras that use film stock, things are usually highly scripted in a contained, particular environment. With DV you tend to have a lot of spontaneity and a lot of impromptu happenstances that can be easily captured.

It’s so important for people to share their stories and learn from history. To me, one of the most important forms of disruption in China since Mao is the way people have been barred from telling their stories, or made to alter what they say to fit some official narrative. So you’re performing an important service by writing history with your films, recording the story of the present and the recent past for the people of tomorrow.

I think that’s also why I rely a lot on DV. I joke that only the pace of the evolution of DV equipment can keep up with the pace of the development of China. For me, this film is very much about how, in this time span of 17 years, human connections and human emotions—the interpersonal relationships between people—evolves and changes as a result of all that. On the surface, you can see very clearly the changes pre-internet era and post-internet era, [things like how] in the past you had slow trains and now you have high-speed trains. But that is on the surface level. What I’m interested in exploring is what happened in terms of the inner world of those people in this particular historical context, how their relationships evolved or dissolved and the reasons for the dissolutions and the evolutions of their relationships.

You’ve said you like working with your wife partly because she becomes a kind of second author of your screenplays, adding detail to what you have written. Can you give an example of what she brought to this movie?

When she was in the cabin of the boat and the lady in black [a cabinmate] came in, she just, almost as a kneejerk reaction, stood up, suddenly and immediately. She was trying to capture what it would be like for someone who has been in prison for five years, how she would have reacted to a security guard entering the jail cell and how she would react the same way when this lady in black entered her cabin.

I see her training as a dancer a lot in the physicality of her acting.


Yes. Another example would be the water bottle in this film. It was used to evoke this same character in Still Life, and she carried that water bottle there too. It makes sense because of the weather; it was very hot so she would need to drink. But the water bottle also came in handy to enhance the mood I was trying to create. Zhao Tao took this on and really went for it. She used it as a weapon, she used it as a way to stop the door from closing,

And to avoid holding hands with the man she met on the train.

Exactly. She was using this bottle as a kind of third character in the film, thinking about how this can be expanded and explored.

Your work has faced such strong resistance from the Chinese government. What is the government’s response to your films these days, and how does that affect how you work or how your films are seen?

I make films based on my own ecology, my own tempo and rhythm. I don’t really think too much about whether or not the film can be shown in China. Of course, I would love if my film could be shown in China, but that’s not the only reason why I make films. The most important thing for me is to understand that that’s not the end goal, so I don’t need to somehow sacrifice and change the way I make films in order to be shown in China.

I will make the film I want to make, and if it can be shown in China, great. If not, so be it. That’s the way I interact with this particular censorship system. But I have to say that the situation has improved in terms of the communication channels. Those have opened up a lot more, so after I finish the film, I will do my best as a director to communicate to the censor bureau why this film should be shown in China. That I am willing to do. But I will not compromise the quality or any subject matter.


Translation by Vincent Cheng

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Every Cannes Palme d’Or Winner of the 2000s Ranked

There’s a certain formula that often defines the recipients of Cannes’s most prestigious prize.



Every Cannes Palme d’Or Winner of the 2000s Ranked
Photo: Wild Bunch

There’s a certain formula that often defines the recipients of the Cannes Film Festival’s prestigious top prize, the Palme d’Or. These films, in recent years especially, tend to have a sense of importance about them (Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11), frequently due to their sociopolitical awareness of the world (Laurent Cantet’s The Class), or of specific societal ills (Cristian Mungiu’s 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days). Very occasionally, the Palme d’Or goes to a bold, experimental, and divisive vision from a well-liked auteur (Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives), but more often it’s awarded to a film in the lineup that the most people on the Cannes jury can probably agree is good (Ken Loach’s I, Daniel Blake). And in less than three months, we’ll see if Alejandro G. Iñárritu’s jury will follow any sort of predictable formula when it announces its winners.

You’ll find us on the Croisette this May, covering most of the titles in Cannes’s competition slate. Until then, enjoy our ranking of the Palme d’Or winner from the 2000s. Sam C. Mac

Editor’s Note: This entry was originally published on May 1, 2018.

The Son’s Room

19. The Son’s Room (2001)

Halfway through The Son’s Room, director Nanni Moretti shifts the rhetoric of his narrative away from an exaggerated view of happy domesticity and into a realm of weepy melodrama. Psychiatrist Giovanni (Moretti) is a perfect father and husband: he helps his daughter with her Latin homework (perducto means “without hardship you will be guided”—wink, wink); allows her boyfriend to exalt grass (when high, the boy says he’s “looking at the universe”); and initiates group lip-synching during the family’s car trips. Nicola Piovani’s score grotesquely heightens the joy behind every smile, meaning disaster is inevitable. As Moretti delves deeper into Giovanni’s work, focus is shifted away from the family arena. Though the film blooms when Paola (Laura Morante) and the family seek deliverance from their pain by connecting with a girl their deceased son, Andrea (Giuseppe Sanfelice), met at summer camp, Paola remains a cipher throughout. Cue Brian Eno’s “By This River,” which blares from a car radio as the family stands near the sea that killed their Andrea: “Here we are stuck by this river/You and I underneath a sky/That’s ever falling down, down, down.” In this one stoic moment, not only does the family seemingly escape their grief but also the Rob Reiner soap opera Moretti trapped them in. Ed Gonzalez

Fahrenheit 911

18. Fahrenheit 911 (2004)

A mediocre director but a master PR man, Michael Moore is the father of the Happy Meal documentary: big fonts, quick-fire montages, celebrity cameos, causing elaborate scenes. Fahrenheit 9/11 is no less an attention-grabbing stunt than his Bowling for Columbine, but what a scene it is. At the time of its release, Moore’s compilation of the Bush I administration’s bamboozling of the American public in the wake of 9/11. More than 10 years after its release, though, what lingers most about the film is Moore’s self-aggrandizement and forced sanctimoniousness (he rah-rahs from the sidelines when an interviewee says something he agrees with, and you sometimes get a sense that he wouldn’t call a dying man an ambulance if it meant getting the money shot of the guy croaking). At least it’s some kind of mercy that he spends very little time on screen. Gonzalez


17. Amour (2012)

There’s a deceptiveness lurking deep within Amour, an insincerity that colors the drama, recasting it as a ploy. Whereas across earlier films Michael Haneke’s predilection for deceit served a high-minded, if still somewhat suspect, intellectual purpose (an interrogation of privilege and meaning in Caché, the deconstruction of genre in both versions of Funny Games, and so on), here his disingenuous approach is not only unwarranted, but is actually at odds with the tone and tenor of the drama. This suggests two possibilities: Either Haneke has attempted to shear his sensibility of trickery and failed to do so convincingly, or he has made an experiment in manipulation and feigned empathy so exacting and oblique that nobody has understood its real purpose (I wouldn’t put the latter past him). Either way, Amour intends to dupe us, to feed on our own pain and suffering. Moved to tears or scared to death, we’d all lose our dignity in the end. Calum Marsh


I, Daniel Blake

16. I, Daniel Blake (2016)

English stand-up comedian Dave Johns brings the sort of spontaneous energy to his eponymous character that’s consistently made Loach’s films worth keeping up with. But Blake’s storyline veers from its emotionally grounded setup and into grandstanding displays like the Michael Moore-worthy stunt from which I, Daniel Blake takes its title. Both principal actors have a strong enough sense of their characters, even as they’re pulled into increasingly harrowing places, to make the film a more successful one than Loach’s last few, but it’s still schematic and predictable, and it aggressively stacks the deck against Blake and Kattie (Hayley Squires) in a way that makes it more effective as social activism, and less so as drama. The Loach of two or three decades ago, who made intimate, naturalistic films about the working class, like 1969’s Kes and 1994’s Ladybird Ladybird, is distinctly different from the Loach of today—and the soapbox-prone I, Daniel Blake reaffirms how unlikely it is for that to change. Mac

The Class

15. The Class (2008)

When a plot finally emerges, it’s all about the quandaries of privileging principle (and principal) or empiricism, duty or personal preference, questions that have been implicit all along, even in kids’ protests that they’re always being picked on or favored. As a clever late twist suggests, the interactions themselves are almost all riffs on Socratic debates—usually, the teacher seems to be asking students to verify their claims so he can give himself time to rebut—and as director Laurent Cantet said at The Class’s New York Film Festival press conference, the school’s a place “where democracy is at stake.” Instead of the usual righteous monologues, this is a film of dialogue and dialogues, in which the bickering teachers’ conferences begin to echo the kids’ troublemaking and skepticism but for the adults’ pretense of understanding and decorum (everyone, in any case, has their reason and handily states it in close-up). It would make a perfect, though not particularly good, double feature with Frederick Wiseman’s documentary State Legislature or Advise and Consent. David Phelps

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Every Marvel Cinematic Universe Movie Ranked

On the eve of Captain Marvel’s release, we ranked the 21 films in the Marvel Cinematic Universe.



Every Marvel Cinematic Universe Movie Ranked
Photo: Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures

Most of Marvel Studios’s films are the cinematic equivalent of breadcrumbs, which have been dropped into theaters strategically so as to keep one looking for the next sequel or crossover, when the endless televisual exposition will eventually, theoretically yield an event of actual consequence. Occasionally, however, a Marvel film transcends this impersonality and justifies one’s patience. Weird, stylish, and surprisingly lyrical, Ant-Man, Iron Man 3, and Doctor Strange attest to the benefits of the old Hollywood-style studio system that Marvel has resurrected: Under the umbrella of structure and quota is security, which can bequeath qualified freedom. Chuck Bowen

Editor’s Note: This article was originally published on April 25, 2018.

The Incredible Hulk

21. The Incredible Hulk (2008)

The aesthetic dexterity and psychological depth of Ang Lee’s Hulk is corrupted by Marvel’s “reboot” of the superhero franchise, Louis Leterrier’s intermittently kinetic but depressingly shallow The Incredible Hulk. In response to complaints that Lee’s unjustly excoriated 2003 effort was too talky and slow, Leterrier swings the pendulum to the opposite side of the spectrum, delivering a slam-bang spectacle so lacking in weight that, until the impressive finale, the film seems downright terrified of character and relationship development, as if too much conversation or—gasp!—subtextual heft will immediately alienate coveted young male fanboys. Nick Schager

Iron Man 2

20. Iron Man 2 (2010)

Upgraded with the latest CGI hardware but also more shoddy screenwriting software than its system can withstand, Iron Man 2 is an example of subtraction by addition. For a sequel designed to deliver what its predecessor did not, Jon Favreau’s follow-up to his 2008 blockbuster piles on incidents and characters it doesn’t need while still managing to skimp on the combat that should be this franchise’s bread and butter but which remains an element only trotted out at sporadic intervals and in modest portions. Schager

Captain Marvel

19. Captain Marvel (2018)

As another of the character-introducing MCU stories existing mostly to feed new superheroes into the Avengers series, Captain Marvel looks like something of a trial run. You know the drill: If the film lands with audiences, then you can count on Captain Marvel (Brie Larson)—like Iron Man, Captain America, Thor, and even Ant-Man before her—getting her own series. But if not, then, hey, she’s at least assured of being asked to pop by the game room at Stark Industries for a kibitz in somebody else’s franchise down the road. Based on what’s on display here, Captain Marvel could well get her own star turn again at some point, but hopefully it will be with a different crew behind the camera. Chris Barsanti

Avengers: Infinity War

18. Avengers: Infinity War (2018)

What is this, a crossover episode? After 18 films, the overlords at Marvel Studios have gathered almost all of their indentured servants, er, star-studded stable together into the ever-crashing, ever-booming, and ever-banging extravaganza Avengers: Infinity War. Whether you look at this whirling dervish and see a gleefully grandiose entertainment or a depressing exemplar of the culturally degraded present moment will depend on your investment—in all senses of that term—in Marvel’s carefully cultivated mythos. The film is all manic monotony. It’s passably numbing in the moment. And despite the hard-luck finish—something an obligatory post-credits sequence goes a long way toward neutering—it’s instantly forgettable. Strange thing to say about a film featuring Peter Dinklage as the tallest dwarf in the universe. Keith Uhlich



17. Thor (2011)

With some notable exceptions, Marvel Studios-produced films usually plateau at a glossy but totally indistinct level of mediocrity, and Thor continues the trend of weakly jumpstarting a franchise based on a Marvel comic with an adequate but instantly forgettable origin story. Kenneth Branagh’s film is reasonably well put-together, but unlike even his worst films, it has no internal life, instead feeling like an impersonal, assembly-line product. The film’s most notable feature is that it serves as a continuation of the Marvel Cinematic Universe set up by the Iron Man movies. Characters from those films pop up during Thor’s main narrative and after the end credits, living up to Marvel’s commitment to populating their films with the same bland versions of perfectly acceptable characters. While Thor is certainly competent, that’s just not enough. Simon Abrams

Captain America: The First Avenger

16. Captain America: The First Avenger (2011)

A spectacle of star-spangled superheroics, Captain America: The First Avenger gives sturdy big-screen treatment to Marvel’s square-jawed—and square—jingoistic military man. With Joe Johnston delivering pyrotechnical action-adventure in a period guise, à la The Rocketeer (which was similarly fixated on its female lead’s buxom chest), this costumed-crusader saga is a capable, if somewhat unremarkable, affair beset by the same origin-story shortcomings that plagued another U.S.-virtue-via-army-weaponry fable, Iron Man—namely, a bifurcated structure in which the introductory first half exceeds, in compelling drama and kick-ass thrills, the latter fight-the-baddies combat. Schager

Avengers: Age of Ultron

15. Avengers: Age of Ultron (2015)

While writer-director Joss Whedon takes considerable strides to make Avengers: Age of Ultron’s narrative feel more nuanced and personal, his few sublime scenes of expressive melodrama are drowned out by the massive amounts of exposition and backstory that make up most of the dialogue and subsequently make the film feel overworked. When the talk isn’t about the intricate plot and the characters’ mythology, it’s a whole lot of dick-centric jabs. In cases like the competition over who can pick up Thor’s (Chris Hemsworth) hammer, there’s a vague sense that Whedon is in on the joke, but then there’s a plethora of other exchanges that don’t seem so tongue in cheek. The bro-isms that underscore these interpersonal relations might explain why Scarlett Johansson’s Natasha Romanoff strikes up a romance with Bruce Banner (Mark Ruffalo), a.k.a. the Hulk, the only male Avenger who isn’t consistently preoccupied with the size of his…ego. The growing relationship between Romanoff and Banner is the tender heart of Age of Ultron, and Whedon clearly thrills in the cheesy but heartfelt melodrama that builds between them. Unfortunately, as the film has approximately another half-dozen or so plotlines to tend to, this section of the story barely makes up a sixth of the narrative. Chris Cabin

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