In the media, the road to The Canyons has been paved for many months, by everything from Stephen Rodrick’s epically odd New York Times piece, which chronicled the dirty details of Lindsay Lohan’s on-set drama, to Larry Gross’s ethically questionable Film Comment article, which all but lauded the L.A.-set treatise on youthful hollowness as a newfangled masterpiece. On the eve of the movie’s VOD release, as defenders and naysayers continue to step up and state their cases, the jury is still out on The Canyons, a film that’s exploited the powers of subversion from beginning to end—whatever that may be. Conceptually, the project is undeniably titillating, an ostensible bit of knowing, arty trash that mashes up the subcultural talents of Lohan, porn star James Deen, writer Bret Easton Ellis, and director Paul Schrader. But is the sum worth the parts? And does that even matter?
Not even Schrader can definitively declare whether the headline-grabbing buzz, or “noise,” as he calls it, can be set apart from whatever art has actually been made here. He knows full well that, with The Canyons, he was embarking on something provocative (and something all the more remarkable for its micro-budgeted, crowdfunded, of-the-moment financing), but he also contends that the collaboration of this motley crew was an “intellectual enterprise,” which may well be deserving of the serious critical kudos its detractors are railing against. At this point, after having The Canyons rocket him back into popular discussion, there are only so many things Schrader can say that he hasn’t already said about the project. Yes, he dropped trou to help make Lohan more comfortable. Yes, Lohan rallied against having Deen play Christian, the scummy, rich boyfriend of her vixen-ish character, Tara. But Schrader expresses zero fatigue in talking further about the movie, one he gleefully recognizes is unlike any he’s ever made before. Frank and forthcoming, the 67-year-old industry legend told me about being an art “leftover,” his fondness for T.S. Eliot, how exhibitionist porn stars got Lohan all shook up, and how, despite having introduced mainstream audiences to full-frontal male nudity in American Gigolo, and having directed Lohan in her first topless turn, he’s not much of a sexual being himself.
You open this film with a series of shots of run-down, abandoned movie theaters, which could lead some people to believe that you’re commenting on cinema’s demise. But, considering how The Canyons was made, it seems to register more as an acknowledgment of how the viewing experience has evolved.
That’s correct. We’re talking about cinema for the post-theatrical era. Not the end of cinema, but the end of the notion that it must be seen in a dark room, in front of a crowd, projected on a wall. And that was the concept from the very start, in my very first email to Bret, when I proposed this. I proposed it [in terms of] working that way. There was a time when the phrase “direct-to-video” was a disparaging term, but I think we’re emerging from that, and we have a chance to create must-see VOD that just bypasses theatrical. I showed the film to Steven Soderbergh, because he had done The Girlfriend Experience, and I wanted his opinion. He said, “I’ve already done that.” And I said, “Well, what would you do differently today?” And he said, “I probably wouldn’t show it in any theaters.”
In a way few recent movies have, The Canyons virtually achieved cult status without even being seen, developing this provocative, anticipatory, pre-release life, in large part because of who’s involved. What enticed you more: The movie you were making or who you were making it with?
[laughs] I don’t know if you could separate those. Lindsay creates her own cone of chaos, and the fact that she’s making a micro-budget movie is chaotic in and of itself. So it all merges into a kind of ad-hoc reality, where everything is changing as we’re doing it. One of the things that really attracted me about this was just the notion of it: Is it possible for someone, meaning me, to make a film in such a way? Nothing I did in making this film is how I’ve done it before. Not the inception, or the financing, or the casting, or the making, or the promotion, or the release. So that was a kind of a buzz, just sort of exploring new territory.
There’s been a great deal of press about Lindsay, but what about James? What was it like to shift from working with mainstream male stars like Richard Gere and Willem Dafoe to someone like him?
Well, in this case, James was a fucking saint. [laughs] You know, he’s been in front of the camera for a long time. There’s been a lot of film on this guy. And he’s worked with a lot of high-strung, temperamental women. And I thought that he put up with the environment remarkably well. I don’t think there’s another actor who would have been as patient as James was. Now, why did I cast him? I don’t know. It was surprising to me. It was Bret’s idea, and I never thought it would happen. But I tested him, and the more I thought about it, the more interesting it became. He was so much like a Bret character. And then Lindsay got involved, and this notion of using two icons of outré culture—James from the adult world and Lindsay from the celebrity world—and putting them together in an intellectual enterprise, by Bret, started to have a real appeal. And I thought, “Wait, this could make some noise.” It’s such a post-empire idea. Bret is a believer in post-empire art, meaning that America is now in its post-empire art phase, just like Britain was in the last century. We’re making art from the leftovers of our empire. And when you talk about leftovers, there’s Bret, there’s me, there’s Lindsay, and there’s James! [laughs] So we picked up the broken pieces and put them together.
Do you see James as getting a fruitful mainstream acting career out of this?
I don’t know. And I don’t think James knows. His acting career in porn is coming to an end because of his age, so he’s doing a lot of directing now. But he would run back to work as soon as we wrapped. I think he’s tempted by [mainstream acting], but on the other hand, I don’t think he’s gonna give up his day job.
I spoke to him recently, and when we discussed the filming of some of the sex scenes, he mentioned that you’re not a very sexual creature. Upon first hearing that, it seemed a little hard to believe.
Oh. I would say he’s probably right. I’m certainly not in relation to his world. I wouldn’t be comfortable shooting porn. It wouldn’t appeal to me. To me, it would be like shooting industrial videos.
How would you describe the mood in the room among you and James and Lindsay while shooting, say, the neon-lit foursome?
Well, Lindsay was very, very uncomfortable, because she had never done this before, and she’s there in a room with three people who do it for a living. And for them, for James and his friends, this was a lark. It was like, “What a joke this is—we’re going to shoot a sex scene where there’s really no sex.” And for her it’s a trauma. So that was a rough kind of thing to negotiate. And Lily [Labeau], who plays the girl in that scene, she kept walking around naked all the time. And I said, “Lily, you know, you’re really unnerving Lindsay. Could you please put a robe on?” And she said, “Well I thought I was just making everybody feel comfortable.” And I said, “It’s not having that effect! You’re making Lindsay even more uncomfortable!” [laughs]
Wow. Given the setting, the tone, the story, and the talent involved, The Canyons almost feels like an experimental intersection of parts of your previous work, from Hardcore and American Gigolo to Light Sleeper and Auto Focus. Is there another film of yours you feel it most closely resembles?
Not really. It has the beat, it has the pulse of American Gigolo, but the characters here are all very hollow. These are “The Hollow Men.” That’s why I put T.S. Eliot in the film. You know that shot, that racked focus, when James is at the shrink’s office? And there’s that painting on the wall?
Yes, I do.
That’s T.S. Eliot.
That shot also contains that fish-eye mirror, which is part of another shot that draws us into the shrink’s office. Tara often pesters Christian about what he talks about with his therapist, and it made me wonder, what sort of things would Paul Schrader talk about with his therapist?
Well, I was in analysis for a good number of years, and it was very, very useful for me—that notion of speaking to the ceiling, and free-associating. It helped me a lot in my life. But, literally, you talk about anything, and you just go from one subject to another until you stumble across something that’s revealing. But Christian isn’t really free-associating there, he’s just sort of pissed off.
The movie revels in presenting its share of industry sleaze, and I know this is Bret’s script, but should we be inferring that any of this behind-closed-doors stuff is reflective of your own experiences in Hollywood?
Oh, I’ve never had those experiences. But, then, I never looked for them either. And the character James Deen’s playing isn’t really a movie guy; he’s a Blendr/Grindr hook-up guy, who just happens to be financing this movie that he doesn’t even care about. I never really saw it as being about the movie business in that way.
But it’s very much an L.A. movie, and it’s one of those films in which the sun has a kind of palpable heat, which only adds to the tension of what we’re watching. As an image-maker, what are your thoughts about that iconic atmosphere, and what it’s come to mean in our collective consciousness as film viewers?
Well, yeah, it’s just that Los Angeles light. I mean, if it were raining, I would have still shot, but it never rained while we were shooting. And also there’s that mixture here of talk, talk, talk; walk, walk, walk; walk and play music; talk, talk, talk. And it gives a kind of L.A. rhythm, which is the same rhythm in American Gigolo.
Personally, I think one of your greater strengths as a filmmaker is how you’ve remained an inventive voyeur, and continually found intriguing ways of looking. Does that skill and interest often feel like it’s refreshing itself?
I mean, yes. That’s just the boredom factor, in a way. Any good director, or any director at all for that matter, should always be saying, “Well, what’s the best way to see this, and how can I see this better?
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.
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
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.
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.
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
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
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
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
Every Marvel Cinematic Universe Movie Ranked
On the eve of Captain Marvel’s release, we ranked the 21 films in the Marvel Cinematic Universe.
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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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