This Is America, Dude -- Learn the Rules

My life was simple when I was fifteen. I went to school in the daytime, and the rest of my time was devoted to three loves: basketball, a chunky girl named Erica Lee and comic books. My love for those first two things came naturally and easily. I played basketball almost every day after school in Steve McMillan's driveway. On Sundays we played in the church gym after service. We played with our shirttails hanging out and our ties tucked into the front of our shirts, and every week I'd get the worst fucking blisters from running up and down the court in my loafers. As for Erica, she and I talked on the phone for a couple of hours almost every day, and as far as I was concerned that was enough for a satisfying relationship.

I struggled, however, with my love for comics. I went to my favorite comic book store once a week, and I always kept my eyes open for new titles and new artists. At times, I felt like I loved comic books too much; other times, I felt I didn't love them enough. I realized there was a comic-book subculture who took their comics very seriously -- these were the guys who became outraged when that hot piece of ass Invisible Girl had shoulder-length hair in the current issue of the Fantastic Four, but chin-length hair in a cameo appearance in the same month's issue of Spider-Man. They demanded consistency in what they called "the Marvel universe," and I was conflicted as to whether I should reject their gayness or embrace their exacting standards.

Ultimately, I rejected the ethos of the fanboy, largely because I wanted to eventually have sex. The other path led to becoming Seymour from Ghost World, who is self-aware enough to lament, "You think it's healthy to obsessively collect things? Can't connect with other people so you fill your life with stuff."

But lately I've realized the fanboy still lives within me. He emerges each time I go to the movies.

Two weeks ago I went to see Spider-Man 2. Anthony Lane, the genius film critic for the New Yorker, calls it "an action movie founded on indecision" and, like the pretentious asshole that he is, remarks "There is only one young man I can think of who was more torn about his purpose in life, and he, regrettably, was taken off the case by Laertes." My second favorite film critic, A.O. Scott (who I'm glad replaced Elvis Mitchell as the primary Times film critic, mostly because Elvis Mitchell was the kind of moron who liked to name-drop Nine Inch Nails and New Order in his reviews), also gives an unqualified favorable review. I thought it fucking sucked.

The reason I never read Spider-Man comics as a kid was because Spider-Man was depressing. Peter Parker was forever getting shit on, and he'd passively endure his suffering like he was Job. That his suffering was the kind of everyday suffering that any sad sack at your office might undergo made Spider-Man even more unpleasant to read. It was the Bathetic Adventures of Spider-Man. That the superhero is conflicted and not-so-super out of costume doesn't make him interesting -- it makes him boring. But seriously, it's not just my own personal bias that made me hate the movie -- it sucked on its own merits.

First, Doc Ock, who isn't, despite what everyone will tell you, a good villain, should have his head cave in every time he gets punched by Spider-Man. Also, that whole scene where Alfred Molina wonderingly observes that the works of T.S. Eliot are more difficult to grasp than anything science has to offer, while his wife gazes at him like she's Nancy and he's the Gipper: unwatchable. Kirsten Dunst should win some sort of award for most stoned actress. Bruce Campbell's cameo bugged me because I could sense all these Evil Dead dorks around me desperately wanting to jerk off. Every time Harry Osborn appeared on-screen I'd get bored. It's tedious to watch someone who wears only two faces: the cheesy, flashy sales guy and the brooding, seething guy. I like how he slaps Peter Parker's face open-handed like he's a bitch, not once, but twice, and then still insists Peter is his best friend. Whatever, dude. You'd think Spider-Man, who does whatever it takes to help the good citizens of New York, would try and raise a little scratch for his poor old Aunt May, who gets evicted from her house and is probably like two months away from eating dog food for dinner. That whole scene at the end where that big ball of fusion energy has to be stopped, and because it's like "the power of the sun in my hand" or whatever, Doc Ock tells Spider-Man it can't be contained, but then, like, a minute later he tells him, "No, wait, try DUNKING IT IN SOME WATER" -- fucking whatever, dude.

And then on Sunday I saw I, Robot. First, there is a fine tradition in American cinema of movies that explore the possibility of robots taking over the world. I'm all for that tradition, which is why I even consented to seeing I, Robot in the fist place. It's a crappy dystopian-future flick, though. For one thing, everyone still dresses the same. I like my citizens of the future to wear shiny clothes, or at least clothes without collars and lapels. People in the future look more futuristic in mandarin collars. I don't know why that is -- it just fucking is.

The story is mind-bogglingly stupid. A.O. Scott observes, "I, Robot makes less sense the more you think about it." If you've seen the movie, you know what he's talking about. If not, you're a mongoloid.

I swear to God, I'm the funnest person in the world to go to the movies with.

Posted by john at July 22, 2004 09:07 PM