Not all superheroes can afford fashionable rubber suits and utility belts.
Huh, Batman, you fucking bourgeois douche-bag!
If injecting some much-needed color in the superhero sub-genre (which as of late has all been painted black) sounds like an appealing proposition, then you will probably want to go out and rent a copy of Super today. No trite political intrigue here, nor any overwritten, moralistic, or otherwise gritty attempt at creating a restrictive dramatic canvas. Only fan service, which is what the genre is all about. Overdetermined, drug-dealing, gun-totting villains abound and the retribution for their crimes is brutal and bloody, even gory at times. The protagonist (Rainn Wilson) is the quintessential nerd turned avenger and not simply a good-looking teenager disguised as a nerd disguised as an avenger (such as Tobey Maguire's Spiderman). His sidekick (Ellen Page) is a similar, albeit more seductive, misfit, hers being an obsession for crime-fighting turned exclusively inward, an outlet so to speak, for her manic-depressive unconsciousness. The two paired together form an irresistible tragicomic duo involved in a wide array of oft-hilarious, always politically incorrect schemes, including semi-random beatings, pipe bomb crafting, brutal murders by cars and near-rape. Add a second beauty (Liv Tyler) to the mix, as well as a large cast of seasoned vets such as Kevin Bacon, Michael Rooker and Nathan Filion and you've got a stellar, star-studded indie gem, amounting to a kick in the ribs of Nolan's Batman and the unfortunate tradition of gritty superhero films that it has spawned.
The story of Super is that of Frank (Wilson), a poor, aging diner cook whose two "perfect" moments include his marriage with co-worker, and former junkie, Sarah (Tyler) and that one time when he directed a cop toward the hiding place of a fleeing robber. Suffice it to say that Frank's happiness hangs by a thread, which is severed when Sarah leaves him for local drug peddler Jock (Bacon). Hellbent on getting her back, he acts on his latest "vision" when spurred on by comic book store clerk Libby (Page) and becomes a superhero dubbed "The Crimson Bolt". Armed with a rather large wrench, he patrols the streets in search of petty criminals whom he beats up senselessly until he has worked up the sufficient amount of courage to attack Jock's mansion. When his plan backfires (literally), he turns to Libby for help. Ecstatic with being the Bolt's privileged confident, she insists on becoming his kid sidekick, Boltie, donning a super-sexy outfit for the occasion. And while there is obvious sexual tension between the two, culminating in a surprising rape scene, Frank remains focused on Sarah, which he finally manages to rescue after a lengthy stand-up fight with Jock's goons.
Calling all destroyers!
The first salient feature of this film is the jaw-dropping opening credits, comprised of a crude hand-drawn depiction of the cast involved in a frenzied choreography which had the entire audience clapping vigorously at the screening. And I'm not just talking claps, I'm talking loud cheers. Hell, those credits alone were worth the admission price, colorful and fast-moving as they were, as well as perfectly coordinated with Tsar's pop-rock anthem Calling all destroyers, a so-so song which finds new relevance here. That said, opening credits are one thing, an important one, granted, but a single element in a much more complex ensemble. As they should, they are an integral part of the story, reflecting on Frank's obsessive retreat in a cartoon world which he has created for himself in order to escape from the grim landscape of everyday life. The manic energy contained in the credits, the raw power emanating from the crimson-colored hero, all these elements are the crystallization of a wish made by a helpless nerd, the realization of which constitutes the crux of the narrative. That said, the biting black humor at work here proceeds mostly from how pathetic Frank really is, and how seriously he considers his calling.
Personally, I must say that I entered the theater enticed first and foremost by the perspective of seeing Ellen Page don a skin-tight, green and yellow superhero costume. Hell, just a glance would've been alright. Instead we get, as stoic protagonist Frank puts it, a very "inappropriate", intensely lascivious parade in which she poses seductively while rubbing her body with both hands. Now, that's the kind of fan service one rarely gets from over-intellectual, trend-setting Hollywood. We're not just talking entertainment here, we're talking hysterical, contagious energy seeping from every shot. This includes each hilarious moment of politically incorrect, sometimes highly original humor. Whether you like to see butters or pedophiles getting hit across the face with a wrench, horny girls raping middle-aged men, gun-shopping with rednecks, or tentacle-filled epiphanies, Super has got it in store.
That said, this new film by James Gunn contains just the right amount of Slither to make it work, whereas his former film contained too much thereof and not enough engrossing characters. This time around, Michael Rooker is perhaps a little underused as an empathic henchman, but there are two very enticing leads to cover for Elizabeth Banks and Nathan Filion (who's got a bit part here). As for the tentacles, they are back! And I was happy to see them. I mean, director Gunn clearly entertains a fetish for Japanese tentacle porn, and it shows here, but in a surprisingly novel, disturbingly iconoclastic way. I won't spoil it entirely, but there is that one scene (a definitive highlight of the film) where God himself intervenes using some very intrusive, wiggling tentacles. Playing well outside the traditional Judo-Christian canon, former Troma affiliate Gunn offers us a refreshing portrait of divinity, one of the most original thereof on this side of Mind Games.
By now, you will probably have noticed that I use a large number of superlatives to describe the film. Well, Super is just that kind of film: one that makes you so enthusiastic and content as to distribute hyperboles as generously as one gives out free tickets to a NY Islanders game. It has that effect on people. And the reason why it had a hard time striking a distribution deal? Blasphemy and sex, two things which are rather revered by hardcore film fans, those who crowd film festivals and midnight screenings, those who understand that if film is meant to echo life, it MUST contain blasphemy and sex. Super is not made for critics. It's not made for the MPAA. It's made for fans, for people who would rather have fun watching a superhero film rather than getting tangled in a political intrigue, people who enjoy the fate of little people trying to cope with a real, albeit disgusting world more than that of rich socialites or brainy science students navigating lush dystopian worlds.
Unlikely romance under the bridge of normalcy: Page and Wilson
While focused on fan service, the film manages to create a very engrossing dramatic canvas by emphasizing the everyday aspect of its superhero narrative and by making its protagonists two true-to-life nut-cases, both of whom embody a distinct tradition of costumed escapism. While Frank is the sad, under-confident weakling who dons his gear in order to feel stronger than he actually is, Libby uses it as an outlet for her psychotic alter-ego trapped deep within the confines of her outward shell. Driven by the desire for power, and for freedom respectively, the two individuals are oblivious to social responsibility, which is obvious in their frenzied exaction of justice. Much more than those of any Batman or Spiderman, their motivations are perfectly intelligible to anyone who has ever experienced isolation or a sense of powerlessness. In that regard, Rainn Wilson is perfectly cast in the lead. And while his unforgiving looks do a part of the work for him, the man gives a full, touching dramatic performance culminating in a heart-breaking scene where he asks tearfully begs God to know why he was made such an object of ridicule. Contrary to that of Page, his performance is perfectly subdued, which makes his outbursts of emotion all the more gripping. As for the tiny Canadian, she breezes by on her soft, irresistible looks and addictive screen persona, embodying, as she did so many times before, the whimsical dream girl that guys love to love (entertaining lustful thoughts about her since I first saw Hard Candy, I was surprised to see that ALL of my male friends find her attractive, no matter their usual preferences for busty blondes or redheads). But while she is great in the role of Libby, the comic book clerk, she appears a tad overzealous as hysterical Boltie, especially considering her limited vocal register. That said, her whimsical smile, murderous Wolverine claws, and proclivity for seductive poses make her easily forgiven in the present context.
The only real qualm I have with the film is its getting rid of her character so conveniently. And while it is common practice to eliminate sexualized, or otherwise extroverted women in order to quell the protagonist's dilemma in choosing a mate with whom to live "happily ever after", I didn't expect it from James Gunn. Granted, Boltie is a psycho, and she would have most likely driven Frank crazy with her ramblings had he decided to side with her instead of Sarah. But at least she loved him, with the passion unfortunately reserved only for mental patients. So why should it be okay for him to cum inside her, then violently push her inside (at which point, one can narrowly see her crotch) and subsequently lead her to her death? Why shouldn't we pissed off by that, the wanton murder of such a carefully crafted object of desire? To some, her brutal execution will provide some giddy thrills by way of a nasty shot of her mangled face, but for those who truly love women, it will be an ordeal to watch. And that single tear shed by Frank in her memory, it is not nearly enough to celebrate the myriads of exquisite female characters murdered by the hands of screenwriters hellbent on saving male protagonists from arduous amorous choices, but not from casual sexual encounters. Not nearly enough.
All in all, while director James Gunn is not the most talented filmmaker around, he is fast establishing himself as a true author, one who values viewer satisfaction above all, indulging in all forms of excessive imagery for them to savor anonymously and without guilt. Those who have seen Slither will probably remember that scene where a captive woman is literally torn apart by an army of oily slugs feeding on her innards. As for those who have seen Super, they will effortlessly recall the girl-on-guy rape scene, or the brutal beating of two butters. Personally, I reckon that it is the kind of shit people want to see. Not that their brain demands it, but their guts, where the appreciation of any genre film first springs. After all, what guy hasn't dreamed of a horny girl ripping their pants off? And who hasn't wished of kicking the shit out of annoying line-cutters, or other social parasites? Now, maybe you don't condone such behavior, but surely you sometimes contemplate it. Which is where genre cinema comes in, as a very therapeutic outlet for pent-up emotions, the new pope of which is irreverent James Gunn, who earns his rightful place in the landscape of American genre cinema by making it so that popular cinema becomes crowd-pleasing once more. The man's current rise to (indie) fame comes at an appropriate time when ancient filmmaking traditions are in dire need of new blood in order to counter Hollywood's systematic recycling of used material (particularly foreign genre films and comic books). And while his films are somewhat derivative of older stuff, they revel in excess to a point where genre cinema manages to regain its lost essence as a primordial, visceral form of expression.
3,5/5 Hilarious, irreverent superhero film brings some much-needed color back to the genre while managing to frame an engrossing, true-to-life drama.
