1.5 stars. Rated PG-13, for action violence and occasional profanity
By Derrick Bang
When some movies go wrong, they really go wrong.
Given the care with which the
Marvel Comics Group has shepherded recent projects to the big screen, I’m
amazed they ever let this atrocious mess out of the box. Based on this
evidence, Josh Trank shouldn’t be allowed to direct a small-town theater
production, let alone helm a big-budget superhero epic. He hasn’t the faintest
idea how to handle actors, maintain a consistent tone, or even execute smooth
scene transitions.
Trank apparently got this
assignment as a result of his only previous feature credit: 2012’s over-praised
Chronicle. For a fleeting moment,
apparently perceived as the Next Best Thing in sci-fi cinema, he even was
assigned to direct the next Star Wars
film (following this December’s Episode
VII: The Force Awakens). Based either on early footage from this inept
handling of Fantastic Four, or
reports of his behavior while making
this film — the media spotlight hasn’t been kind — Trank’s relationship with
the Star Wars franchise was abruptly
severed.
Smartest decision George Lucas
ever made.
This re-boot of Marvel Comics’
original superhero family — the FF debuted in November 1961, almost a year
ahead of Spider-Man’s launch in August 1962 — is even worse than the two
earlier efforts, back in 2005 and ’07. And, mind you, that means impressively
bad, because those two attempts were quite disappointing.
In fairness, Trank doesn’t
deserve the sole blame. He shares scripting credit with Simon Kinberg and
Jeremy Slater; the former has a vastly superior résumé as both writer and
producer, but the latter’s sole previous credit is the completely awful Lazarus Effect, which was unleashed to
unsuspecting viewers earlier this year.
Clearly, Kinberg’s efforts
weren’t enough to salvage the clumsy, sloppy input from Trank and Slater.
More than anything else, this Fantastic Four resembles the cornball
sci-fi TV shows of the 1950s — Rocky
Jones, Space Ranger, Captain Video
and His Video Rangers, and a few others — with their clunky dialogue,
laughably wooden actors and amazingly silly storylines. Yes, Trank’s new film
benefits from special effects that those old shows could only dream of, but
that’s meaningless these days, when even stinkers can boast awesome visuals.
Frankly, Trank & Co. have
ruined the Fantastic Four. The previous two films left Marvel’s “first family”
on life support, but this one puts the final nail in the coffin. And that’s
truly a shame, because the FF have an even richer comic book history than
Spider-Man or the X-Men.
This film’s first half hour isn’t
too bad, starting with a prologue
that introduces genius inventor Reed Richards (Owen Judge), a kid with visions
of flying cars and teleportation. Although such rich flights of fancy earn
nothing but contempt from his dismissive science teacher, Reed does gain a
friend in Ben Grimm (Evan Hannemann), youngest member of a blue-collar family
that runs a local junk yard.
That contemptuous science teacher
— Mr. Kenny, played with beetle-browed disdain by Dan Castellaneta — is an
early indication of this script’s bizarre refusal to acknowledge or understand
rational, reasonable character behavior. This prologue is set in 2007, long
past the time when young geniuses started being elevated into special-ed
classes. Mr. Kenny’s condescending behavior would have made sense in the
aforementioned 1950s, but certainly not half a century later.
Anyway...
Reed nearly blows up the
neighborhood one fine evening, but he and Ben become fast friends nonetheless.
Flash forward a buncha years, as late-teen Reed (now played by Miles Teller)
and Ben (Jamie Bell), still friends, once again suffer Mr. Kenny’s smug
dismissal during a high school science fair. This time, however, Reed’s efforts
gain the attention of Dr. Franklin Storm (Reg E. Cathey) and his adopted
daughter, Sue (Kate Mara). Both are ferociously smart themselves, and they
offer Reed a place at the Baxter Institute.
Dr. Storm hopes that Reed will be
able to finish the teleportation work begun by rebellious former student Victor
Von Doom (Toby Kebbell). Of late, Victor has been pouting on the sidelines,
brooding about how mankind doesn’t deserve its place on Earth; such ramblings
aside, he inexplicably jumps at the chance to resume his place at the Baxter
Institute.
Possibly because he’s sweet on
Sue, but this script isn’t too good about establishing character motivation.
Dr. Storm also hopes to lure his
wayward son, Johnny (Michael B. Jordan), back to the scientific fold. Johnny
would rather race (and crash) cars, but he nonetheless joins the team, his
petulant arrogance vanishing when he inexplicably — at first sight — becomes
Reed’s new best friend. (The working-class Ben, sadly, has remained behind in
the family junkyard.)
For a time, then, Reed, Sue,
Victor and Johnny work together as a more-or-less happy unit. They perfect the
teleportation device, at which point one of the Baxter Institute’s heads, the
smarmy Dr. Allen (Tim Blake Nelson, utterly wasted in an ill-conceived role),
pats them on the back and prepares to submit their work to the U.S. military.
Well. Can’t have that, so the impulsive Reed,
Johnny and Victor decide to test the machine themselves. Why they don’t include
Sue is rather bewildering, but even more peculiar — in terms of story logic —
is the fact that Reed, after all this time, drags Ben out of bed, miles away,
to join them on this adventure. They take the ill-advised trip; bad stuff
happens; not everybody makes it back; those who do return get ... transformed.
As does Sue, despite not having made the journey.
At which point, the already dumb
plot descends into total chaos.
Longtime fans know that Victor
Von Doom is the Fantastic Four’s primary bête
noire, having debuted in the fifth issue of their comic book; savvy
mainstream viewers undoubtedly will suspect as much anyway, presented with a
character named Doom. The major flaw in the two earlier movie handlings of the FF
was the wholly miscast Julian McMahon’s insubstantial portrayal of this
character, so easily defeated by our heroes. (McMahon was riding high at the
time, as the star of TV’s Nip/Tuck: a
classic example of casting by somebody’s 15 minutes of fame, rather than common
sense.)
Perhaps not wanting to repeat
that error, Trank & Co. have gone too far in the other direction. Their
Doom becomes crazy-formidable, with godlike powers likely capable of defeating
the entire Avengers. Yet we’re to believe that this Doom could be bested by
Stretch Armstrong (that would be Reed, whose limbs become pliable), force-field
bubbles (from Sue), fireballs (tossed by the flaming Johnny) or old-fashioned
body blows (courtesy of Ben, now the rock-skinned Thing)?
Never in a million years.
On top of which — and this also
was a problem with the 2005 Fantastic
Four — the climactic battle royale is over before it begins: no more than a
hiccup. And a totally unbelievable hiccup, at that. Trank & Co. waste so
much time with back-story, and a truly pointless second act that finds Reed on
the run, that they have almost nothing left for the finale.
Almost. There is
enough time for some truly nasty behavior on Doom’s part: gory, nauseating
civilian deaths that are wholly out of keeping with the rest of the film.
One is inclined to believe that
Trank simply lost interest and gave up on anything approaching a reasonable
third act ... which may explain the last-minute re-shoots that took place, just
three months ago. Never a good sign.
The fact that this film clocks in
at a modest 100 minutes also is evidence of insufficient “good stuff” with
which to cobble together a comprehensible film. Mind you, I’m no fan of bloated
epics that don’t deserve their length, but — as one example — Robert Downey
Jr.’s 2008 debut as Iron Man runs a
satisfying 126 minutes: ample time for a solid origin story and middle act, and
a thoroughly satisfying final clash with his
villain.
But perhaps the most obvious
indication that Trank never had control of this film derives from an early
casting blunder. Sue and Johnny Storm are siblings; it’s an essential part of
the FF mythos. Now, I’ve no objection to color-blind casting — to a point — but
it seems ludicrous to put the African-American Jordan alongside the lily-white
Mara, and call them brother and sister. (Lip-service about this film’s Sue
being “adopted” doesn’t cut it.) If you want progressive casting, make ’em both black; that would have been fine.
But that’s small stuff, which
pales alongside Trank’s many other sins. Teller, Bell and Jordan are strong
actors, with excellent work behind them, but you’d never know that here. Mara
usually is a solid supporting performer, but her Sue Storm is equally stiff and
one-dimensional. Trank can’t direct his cast into delivering good work ... or,
perhaps sensing his incompetence, they simply didn’t try.
The result is that we really
don’t like any of our heroes. Johnny
is a jerk; Ben and Reed are blank slates; Sue, perhaps the most sympathetic,
can’t give the team heart all by herself.
Everything builds to the anticlimactic
calm after the storm, perhaps the silliest scene in a movie laden with dumb
scenes, as Reed decides that their new team — everybody now best buddies,
despite plenty of earlier squabbling — needs a suitable name. Enduring the
so-called “banter” that eventually produces the iconic designation, which then
cues the supposedly triumphant end titles, is beyond painful.
What
a sad, sad muddle.
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