Successful superhero film franchises have tended to follow the same pattern since Superman 2: The first movie is a tightly-focused origin story with a thematically cohesive script, strong arcs of character development, and a satisfying totality. Then the second movie, bred out of the success and excitement of the first film, throws it all away by trying to cram everything cool about the hero into a single film — you end up with a smorgasboard of villains, a half dozen half-finished character arcs, and a completely unfocused grab-bag of special effects.

The Dark Knight made itself the major exception to this trend by relentlessly paring itself down into a thematically, dramatically, and cinematically cohesive and focused whole. The result is the best superhero movie ever made, and I’m hoping the example it set will improve future superhero franchises (in a genre where copy-cat approaches seem ridiculously popular). (Ironically, Batman Begins is the film that suffered from the “we need to cram everything cool from the comic book into one movie!” problem as it groped its way towards rebooting the franchise.)

At first glance it seems as if Iron Man 2 doesn’t learn the lesson The Dark Knight has to teach. It seems plagued with all the symptoms of superhero sequel-itis: Lots of villains. Lots of different plot threads. Lots of sound and fury.

But upon reflection, I think this is because Iron Man 2 is pursuing a separate solution to the same problem.

Most superhero movies pursue a conflict structure of Man vs. Man (a natural consequence of the superhero vs. supervillain archetype). This is why the “let’s have eight different super-villains!” sequels generally don’t work: They’re eight different movies all competing for the same screen time.

And if you attempt to analyze Iron Man 2 through that lens, it seems to fall prey to the same problem: In looking for a Man vs. Man conflict, the eye is inexorably drawn towards Whiplash. And the “Whiplash as antagonist” story is deeply flawed: Stark think he’s dead less than halfway through the film and isn’t disllusioned until the final act. Which means that for most of the film, there isn’t a Whiplash vs. Iron Man conflict.

But the movie works because it isn’t Iron Man vs. Whiplash; or Iron Man vs. Justin Hammer; or Iron Man vs. Senator Stern; or Iron Man vs. War Machine; or Iron Man vs. Poisonous Palladium.

Instead, the film’s structure is Tony Stark (Man) vs. World.

The difference in structure is subtle, but it makes all the difference in the world.

Which isn’t to say that the film’s narrative structure is flawless. The movie has particular problems when it’s being saddled with handling exposition for the upcoming Marvel films. And although the novelty of seeing this kind of tight cross-continuity being brought to film is kind of exciting, I suspect the value of this novelty will quickly wear thin (much like it’s worn thin in the comic books themselves).

At the moment, I would say that Iron Man 2 isn’t quite as good as Iron Man. But it’s a pretty close match. And given the high quality of Iron Man, that’s entirely to Iron Man 2‘s credit.

It’s very important, when hiring a screenwriter, to make sure that they aren’t suffering from a terminal case of ADHD.

Perseus: I will do this without the help of the gods!
Some Guy: Our comrades are dying because you won’t let the gods help!
Perseus: It’s important that we show that humans can stand on their own!

That’s a paraphrase, but it’s straight from the film. And while one could argue whether or not Perseus is right, it’s certainly an interesting premise to build a film around.

Unfortunately, the screenwriter forgot the film he was writing. Because as soon as all of Perseus’ comrades have died, Perseus decides to start accepting help from the gods. Apparently Perseus is okay with sacrificing other people for his ideals, but if he has to make the sacrifice himself? Forget it.

And it would be one thing if Perseus was forced to make the hard and deliberate choice to abandon his conviction. Or, in fact, if the film had shown him making any kind of choice whatsoever. But that’s not what happens: Instead he just kind of shrugs his shoulders and changes his tune. Heck, even that’s an exageration: He, along with the film, simply forgets that there was ever any sort of “fight the gods” plot happening.

Then, just to make things a little more half-assed, at the end of the film Zeus revives Perseus’ girlfriend so that they can live happily ever after. All of the other poor schmucks who died because Perseus was a dick? Perseus doesn’t care.

Because Perseus is a dick.

The rest of the script is just kind of a fractal variation on this core failure of logic and character arc. On the plus side, the special effects are pretty cool.

China sure is a small place in the world of the new Karate Kid.

(Although I suppose it’s really no worse than having the Eiffel Tower visible from every point in Paris.)

But that gentle ribbing aside, despite my skepticism of this nepotism-driven create-a-star vehicle, I was very impressed with the new movie. There are a few rough edges that are left inexplicably hanging out and the final tournament sequence lacks the satisfying punch and pace of the original movie, but where the movie excels are in the small details: The cinematography is gorgeous. The performances from Jaden Smith, Jackie Chan, and Wen Wen Han (who played the love interest Meiying) are nuanced.

And there are multiple scenes which are just flat-out emotionally beautiful. The sequence where Dre helps Mr. Han out of the car is one of the most powerful things I’ve seen in the cinema recently.

Is this better or worse than the original? Having seen the movie, I find the question almost meaningless. They told the same story, but they made it their own. It’s a different film, good and bad in its own ways, standing on its own.

Dear Prince of Persia,

You have one gimmick: A dagger that lets you rewind time.

You might want to try using it to some meaningful effect at some point during your movie.

Sincerely,

Justin Alexander

In all seriousness, Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time is a fairly entertaining action-adventure flick. But it’s not particularly clever, and that’s disappointing because a dagger that lets you rewind time should give you plenty of opportunities for cleverness.

I think the film’s real source of struggle is that they turn the Prince into the infallible star of an action movie: For example, one sequence has him effortlessly surf his way down an avalanche of sand, parkour-leap perfectly onto a narrow ledge, and somersault his way into the next chamber. And he’s doing that sort of thing pretty consistently throughout the entire movie.

But the essential nature of the dagger of time is that it lets you erase your mistakes. So if you never let your prototypical action hero make any mistakes, then you’re knee-capping your premise. The disappointing thing here is that the dagger of time gives you the opportunity to create a prototypical action hero who is still a fallible human being (because he achieves that action hero perfection through the use of the dagger) — thus re-creating cinematically the same basic appeal that the game had.

The film also chickens out of using the incredibly funny-yet-bittersweet ending from the original game, opting instead for a paint-by-numbers Hollywood Romance ending. Which I, personally, find disappointing.

Final analysis: Fun to see, but nothing you’re going to remember six months from now.

Over the past 20 years there has been a fascinating trend in vampire fiction. Ever since Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles crystallized the sub-genre, there has been a steady and seemingly inexorable trend towards systematically stripping vampires of their traditional weaknesses: Garlic and running water were the first to vanish, but holy symbols were quick to follow. It wasn’t long before they were able to cast reflections and even sunlight was downgraded from an instant sentence of death to a minor inconvenience before eventually being phased out entirely. Murderous, bloodthirsty beasts? Not so much. I mean, sure, they might get peckish once in awhile, but even that hunger is easily sated by a visit to the local blood bank or sucking a few rats dry.

The root for the trend was obvious: Vampires are alluring. They have the handsome, civilized polish of Mr. Darcy with a dark edge of bad boy danger. And this appeal moved them steadily from them villains to anti-heroes to heroes and, from there, to romantic leads. The result may be a rather bland creation with only the faintest glimmerings of moral and ethical complexity that was once inherent to the vampire mythos (the typical vampire these days has all the moral conflict of Superman eating a Big Mac), but the motivation was also crystal clear.

What’s interesting in reading Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight is seeing what is, in retrospect, the perfectly logical progression of the trend: Having systematically stripped vampires of their weaknesses, the genre had no choice but to start giving them new bling.

And thus we end up with vampires who literally sparkle in sunlight while being gifted with various assortments of psychic powers.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

Okay, quick concept summary for the three people who have no idea what the Twilight Saga is: Isabella Feyfucker moves from the sunny world of Phoenix, AZ to the cold, rainy climes of a small town in the Pacific Northwest. Once there, she becomes the romantic center of attraction for every paranormal male in a 500-mile radius. Particularly Edward Cullen (a vegetarian vampire) and Jacob (a werewolf).

Stephanie Meyer makes it very easy to dismiss her work as that of a talent-less hack. Her prose is crude. Her plotting is uneven and often nonsensical. Her world-building is simplistic and inconsistent. In short,her books simply exude a sense of either carelessness or incompetence or both.

For example, in New Moon Meyer very specifically establishes that it’s the latter half of February (within one or two weeks of Valentine’s Day). Bella wants to sneak out of the house to go hiking and she’s excited when she discovers that her father is planning to go ice-fishing on the river. So far, everything tracks. But when she reaches the woods:

The forest was full of life today, all the little creatures enjoying the momentary dryness. Somehow, though, even with the birds chirping and cawing, the insects buzzing noisily around my head, and the occasional scurry of the field mice through the shrubs, the forest seemed creepier today…

Well, of course it seems creepier! You’ve left your father ice-fishing in the middle of winter and entered some sort of Twilight Zone Narnia featuring eternal summer!

A few paragraphs later Meyer has added “chest-high ferns” (a well-known winter growth) and a “bubbling stream” (which has inexplicably failed to join the river in freezing over) just to maximize the surrealism of the scene.

In the big picture, this continuity gaffe is of relatively minor importance. But Meyer strews this stuff all over her apparently unrevised, unedited, and unread manuscript. And it’s not just the minor stuff, either. Major plot points often fall prey to the same traps.

It was particularly interesting to watch the Twilight movie after reading the books: Meyer’s fanbase screamed bloody murder about a number of minor changes which had “ruined the movie”, but ironically these changes almost universally fixed the fundamental flaws in Meyer’s novel.

For example, in the novel Meyer gets about four-fifths of the way through the book before suddenly realizing that she doesn’t have an ending. To “solve” this problem she has three vampires show up out of nowhere. One of them decides to harass Bella just ’cause he can, Edward kills him, and… that’s it. End of novel. These vampires have no connection to the rest of the narrative, but apparently because there’s a fight the story can be over.

The film doesn’t change much: It just adds a couple of extra scenes in the first three-quarters of the movie to establish these evil vampires as a persistent background threat. But the result is a narrative which actually holds together instead of falling apart.

The film is also remarkably successful in turning Bella’s classmates — who are uniformly bland, forgettable cardboard in Meyer’s novels (to the degree that they quietly fade away in the sequels) — into quirky, memorable characters.

I bring this up only to demonstrate how little effort (or skill) it would take on Meyer’s part to fix many of the most egregious flaws in these novels.

THE SILVER LINING

So if these books are so painfully flawed, why did I keep reading them?

Because Meyer is not, in fact, a talent-less hack. To the contrary: She has one particularly exceptional talent that I feel fairly safe in saying is the reason she’s now a multi-millionaire and her books have become cultural icons.

While Meyer’s secondary characters are nothing more than interchangeable cardboard, Meyer’s handling of her central cast of characters is adept. I would even describe it as gifted. Bella, Edward, and Jacob leap off the page. They breathe. They live.

Are they foolish? Unstable? Irrational?

Absolutely. And it’s easy to make fun of them for that. But there are plenty of foolish, unstable, and irrational people in the real world. Meyer simply captures them in narrative form and then, through the application of the supernatural, she adoitly elevates these all-too-human characters into a mythical plane.

Are those supernatural elements nothing more than a cliched reworking of the vampire-and-werewolf cultural gestalt created by White Wolf’s World of Darkness? Sure. But it doesn’t matter. The mythic elements of Meyer’s milieu don’t need to be particularly original in order to heighten the reality of her characters.

So, basically, you have the powerful alchemy of teen romance with the dial cranked up to 11. That, by itself, is basically paint-by-numbers. What can’t be trivially duplicated is the potent reality of Meyer’s characters. With that added to the mix, the result is explosive.

It’s a pity that this gemstone is mired in the muck of Meyer’s weakness as a writer, but the jewel itself glitters no less brightly. And it’s not surprising to me that these books were able to capture the imagination of a generation of teenage girls.

THE DEEPER PROBLEMS

There has always been something vaguely disturbing in the sub-genre of vampire romances: Holding up the “dangerous man that I can change through the power of love” as some sort of romantic ideal is certainly a popular trope, but not a healthy one. On the other hand, while Meyer doesn’t precisely deal with these issues, she does manage to avoid some of the thornier patches of the sub-genre.

But where the series gets particularly creepy are the sequels. In New Moon, Edward suddenly embraces hardcore emotional abuse as his modus operandi. And then, in Eclipse — as if Meyer were checking off abusive relationships on a To Do list — Edward goes for full-on stalker. Whether it’s literally disabling Bella’s car so that she can’t go where she wants to go or the constant variants of “I only hurt you because I love you, baby” that he mouths, the warning sirens were screaming.

As if to emphasize Edward as a co-dependent, abusive stalker, Meyer simultaneously establishes a second love interest in the werewolf Jacob. Jacob is everything Edward isn’t: Emotionally available. Stable. Supportive. And, thus, completely rejected by Bella as anything more than a good friend (who she can’t see because her jealous boyfriend forbids it).

In Breaking Dawn, the abusive nature of the relationship drains away. But while it made for a more enjoyable reading experience, in retrospect it’s equally creepy: The subtext appears to be that marriage is a magical cure-all. Having problems with an abusive boyfriend? Get married and he’ll start treating you better!

Ironically, Meyer’s strengths as an author only serve to make the Edward-Bella relationship even creepier. She writes Bella with an absolute truthfulness, detail, and depth that seems to fully capture the psychological mire of someone caught in an abusive relationship. In other circumstances, one could hold this up as a literary triumph. But the narrative never presents itself as a the gut-wrenching tale of a girl trapped in a co-dependent tragedy. Meyer is writing a self-destructive horror story, but she thinks she’s writing about exemplary True Love. It’s sad, disturbing, and rather disgusting.

GRADES:

TWILIGHT: C-
NEW MOON: C
ECLIPSE: C
BREAKING DAWN: B-

Stephanie Meyers
Published: 2005 / 2006/ 2007 / 2008
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Cover Price: $10.99
ISBN: 0316038377 / 0316075655 / 031608736X / 031606792X
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