Why Won't THOR Tell You It's THOR?

There were several questions I had while watching THOR, Marvel's latest venture away from the printed page, but the one you see above in big bold type was the key one. Or, more specifically, what happened to THOR's title card?


THOR starts with the Paramount and Marvel Studios logos (logi? logos), but plunges us right into a cold open introducing Natalie Portman's Jane Foster (if somewhat elliptically, in what feels like a weird compromise between making a fast-paced, exciting intro about turning on your laptop and not seeing Natalie Portman's face, neither of which works and/or was a good idea to begin with) and her dream team of the sassy Kat Dennings and stellar Scandinavian Stellan Skarsgard. This is followed by a somewhat exciting TWISTER-type sequence about chasing a storm, which ends when Portman runs over a mysterious stranger and looks to the sky, asking, "where did he come from?"

BAM. Cut to black. Great pre-titles sequence, intriguing and to the point, setting up the characters and basic hook of the story. The title card "Marvel Studios and Paramount Pictures Present" comes up, and I'm starting to settle into my seat, waiting for the inevitable THOR title card, perhaps with some nice lightning effects and CG rain.

But that's where THOR switches it up on you. You're all set for the credits sequence, when the film drops you into tenth-century Norway with only the disembodied voice of Anthony Hopkins as your guide. "Huh," you're thinking, "kinda weird. I guess we're going to do the whole Norse mythology thing before we get the titles." And that's exactly what you get, complete with some pretty obvious lifts from THE LORD OF THE RINGS, which initially feels cheap and repetitive. But this is a film from Sir Kenneth Branagh, and that's when it hits you: this may be a hacky use of shots and effects from THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING, but it must also be a reflexive moment, where Branagh is reminding you of that's film's epic pre-titles sequence, and asking you to cut him a little slack while he lays out his admittedly dense story.

"OK, Kenny B," you say to yourself. "I'll give you some time." So as THOR progresses, you're worrying less and less about the title. It's coming, you're sure, but it's a subconscious thing at this point, while you're asked to focus on more important things, like remembering that the Ice Giants' source of power is a kinda-silly-looking glowing blue chest that looks like Mr. Freeze's Arc of the Covenant, and that Loki is Thor's used car salesman of a brother (I bet he's the good guy).

But all of a sudden, it's thirty minutes into the film, and although you've seen an eyepatched Anthony Hopkins issue a blanket pardon for state-sponsored terrorism, Thor get his Operation Iraqi Freedom on, and a disturbing look into Stringer Bell's cosplay habits, you suddenly realize that you still haven't seen the title of the movie you're seeing.

You quell the rising panic inside of you. The title is coming. It has to be. I mean, why else would that "Marvel Studios and Paramount Pictures Present" card have been on screen twenty-five minutes ago? It just sets up an expectation about what they're presenting. They wouldn't leave us hanging like that. Would they?

Ah, wait. Thor's getting banished. It's all starting to make sense. I bet the film's gonna do one of those "here's where we started" things and then hit us with the title. That makes sense, even if it's gone on a bit long. Natalie hits him with the car, looks up, "where did he come from?" and then...

Next scene.

WHAT IS THE NAME OF YOU, MOVIE? WHAT IS IT?

Of course, I know what the name of the movie is. But why won't the movie tell me? Does the movie itself not know its name?

Things continue to play out on the screen in front of me, including an absolutely gratuitous Jeremy Renner (as Hawkeye!) cameo that adds literally nothing to the story, but I'm not even paying attention anymore. The missing title has become a splinter in my mind, a mystery that needs to be solved. The clues are bewildering, but it's the motive that has me really stumped.

It's not until the entirety of THOR's 114 minutes have played out that I finally put all the pieces together. Oh, I've finally seen the title of the movie, by the way. It was there in the credits, big and shiny and everything it should have been ninety minutes or so ago, but it didn't really click until I saw the post-credits scene.

That's where Mr. Skarsgard gets introduced to the Cosmic Cube by Samuel "the L stands for lnot even trying anymore" Jackson and Loki shows up and gets all glinty-eyed. And that's when it hit me. THOR doesn't have a pre-titles sequence because the whole movie is the pre-titles sequence. It's a tease for THE AVENGERS, through and through.

This might have been a bit harsh. I laughed several times and was genuinely entertained by quite a bit of THOR, but I'm just left wondering how they got people to pay for THE AVENGERS during it's first week of shooting. That's impressive.

Do You Need To Watch The Last 101 Minutes of Scream 4?

The short answer is, no, not really.


But SCREAM 4 is 111 minutes long, and you should absolutely see the first ten minutes of this film. That's where Kevin Williamson and Wes Craven try to bury the ghost of the reflexive horror genre they helped create, and promise a return to the scares-first type of horror that kept you awake as a child.

The reason you don't really need to see the next 101 minutes is that they never really succeed at that.

Let's back up for a moment, though. I used to find it odd that the brothers Wayans felt like SCARY MOVIE needed to exist. I mean, SCREAM was funny. It was satire. I always felt like the Wayans just pushed SCREAM a little further to the margins when they made SCARY MOVIE (what they were doing with the next 5 SCARY MOVIE films, I can't begin to guess). Looking back on it though, it makes a little more sense to me.

The great trick of the first SCREAM is, of course, how it functions as both satire and the thing it satirizes. It constantly functions as both a legitimate horror film and a critique of horror films, something that the sequels struggle with and often fluctuate between, delineating one scene as the "funny" scene, and the next as the "reflexive" scene. The signifier of this tonal shift is usually the presence of Jamie Kennedy. I'm just speculating here, but I think an enterprising individual could make a drinking game out of this thematic fluctuation that would probably make SCREAM 2 slightly more tolerable (and drown the memories of THE JAMIE KENNEDY EXPERIMENT at the same time).

All of this is to say I can now understand the existence of SCARY MOVIE. The deaths in SCREAM are truly horrific. SCARY MOVIE bypassed all that satire and aimed to make a spoof of those horrific elements. The image of Drew Barrymore gutted and tied up in the tree swing is the sort of thing that sticks with you. Ditto with Rose McGowan trapped in the garage doggy door. The sequels' uncertainty about their satirical intent dull these moments of true horror, and make everything feel removed and repetitive.

The same problems exist with SCREAM 4, although the beginning seems to promise an end to this sort of reflexive repetitiveness. Williamson pulls the rug out from underneath the audience's feet twice in the opening ten minutes, scripting a film-within-a-film-within-a-film that made me cackle with the sheer ballsiness of it all. It perfectly encapsulates both the appeal and the problems of post-modern awareness in film, and ends with a character ranting about how you don't care about any of the people in these films. It's easy to see this as a direct address from Wes Craven to the audience as he surveys the world he helped create, where the outrageousness of the kills trumps any kind of meaning or feeling.

Unfortunately, the script never really delivers on this promise to return us to that mode of filmmaking. The first half hour starts to function in this mode, but then, in what feels like an obligatory "oh, right, we're a SCREAM movie" awareness, we get the seen-it-all horror nerds who run a cinema club and give us the "new rules" speech. At this point, we're back to the let's-haul-Jamie-back-from-the-dead-via-the-miracle-of-VHS scene in SCREAM 3, where the franchise just basically admits it's out of ideas and hopes you get distracted by the combined awesomeness of Parker Posey and Princess Leia.

This is a film that laughs at the idea of "a Facebook killer", but expects you to think the idea of a kid live-webcasting his life can be used to dramatic effect. It's a film that wants to be innovative and full of fresh faces, but also wants to bring Neve, Courteney, and David back, because, shucks, wouldn't it be nice to bring them all back? And it's a film that refuses to kill a single one of those people, the only way it could have had the impact it so desperately wants to have.

There are still some worthwhile moments towards the end of the film, where Williamson and Craven take some valid shots at online and celebrity culture, but the story just kind of floats around and gets trapped in the "cool kill" mode. This is made even more disappointing given not only the promise of the film's opening, but also Williamson's story-first approach on THE VAMPIRE DIARIES, one of television's finest guilty pleasures (and before anyone gets too upset about that, let's remember Williamson's THE FACULTY, which is one of the finest alien invasion/murder your teacher films ever made). But by the end of SCREAM 4, you just kind of want to watch that opening 10 minutes again.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to write THE TWEET IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE, a horror film that will truly speak to my generation.

30 DoC: Criterion Does Racism - DO THE RIGHT THING / WHITE DOG

I was six years old when the L.A. Riots happened. I don't remember it ever being a part of my life at all. But I was nine when the O.J. Simpson verdict was announced, and I can vividly remember being ushered into the school library during the day so that the teachers could see the verdict announced live. I didn't understand why we were getting out of class, nor did I have the slightest idea who O.J. Simpson was, or why he was on trial, but I did grasp that something about this was important.

That night, after seeing the news, the world seemed a different place. That's the earliest I can remember being aware of the scale of the politics of race. I grew up in a tiny suburb without a ton of ethnic diversity, and there are a handful of incidents I can remember on the playgrounds where someone's race or beliefs or looks were singled out for persecution. It troubled me, but never to the point of defending those who were isolated and divided. I was never picked on, at least like that. I was always a part of the majority.

So, with that white male bias in mind, allow me to posit that in many ways, DO THE RIGHT THING is about something more than racism.


Of course, DO THE RIGHT THING is about racism, but to me, it's really about the foolishness of believing in any kind of binary system. It's a larger idea that is both incorporated and illustrated by racism.

Take the story of Love and Hate, as told to us by Radio Raheem (directly breaking the fourth wall, and cribbing from the Criterion-approved THE NIGHT OF THE HUNTER, soon to be watched around these parts). The story is a decidedly binary one, as Raheem makes the distinctions crystal clear: love and hate, two forces constantly at war in the universe. The story is left on a vague note, though. Raheem never really completes the story: he ends with the line, "If I love you, I love you. But if I hate you ..."

When Mookie screams "Hate!" at the end of the film, the significance of the story takes on a much more ambiguous note. Mookie's actions have a violent impact, and bear the trappings of hatred, but they are not borne of pure hatred; indeed, in some ways, they could be interpreted as coming from love. The story of love and hate is a far more complicated one than the narrative Radio Raheem suggests.

The title of the film also plays with the failings of binary choices. When Da Mayor tells Mookie to "always do the right thing," early in the film, Mookie laughs it off as something he's heard a thousand times before. At the end of the film, though, the simplicity of absolutes like "always do the right thing" have lost their meaning. Does Mookie do the right thing? Does he do the wrong thing? What about Sal? Or Radio Raheem? Destroying someone else's property is wrong, but what about when doing so could save someone's life? These aren't contrived choices, reality stretched and enhanced for dramatic impact, but rather the sort of excruciating choices life is made of. An action can be both wrong and right.

The greatest example of this blending of right/wrong, love/hate, is the Malcolm X/Martin Luther King, Jr. argument that runs through the film. The character of Smiley repeatedly shows us a picture of the two civil rights leaders smiling and shaking hands, which he decorates and attempts to sell to people throughout the movie. The two men are another example of two seemingly binary opposites that can actually co-exist. The film ends with quotes from the two men, King's an eloquent condemnation of violence, Malcolm X's a righteous justification of violence as self-defense. Again, it seems, an action can be both wrong and right at once.

To me, Lee seems to be saying that any kind of polarized view of the world is a false one, any world where we're given only two choices a limited one, and the film is really calling for a more nuanced and understanding view of each other as individuals.

The second feature in our Criterion-does-racism double bill, WHITE DOG, is equally brilliant.


The film examines racism through the nature/nurture argument, and examines racism as something taught, through the brilliant metaphor (and unfortunately all-too-factual reality) of 'white dogs', animals that have been trained to attack black people. When a young actress comes across one of these animals, she tries to cure it of its racist tendencies with the help of a black trainer.

I don't want to spoil things, as few people will have seen this particular film, given it's limited release, but it verges into surprising, yet inevitable territory. It's a brilliant depiction of the differences between human and animal, of the violence at the heart of survival, and it gives us one of the most fascinating villains in cinematic history.

Both of these films stuck with me, long after they were finished. They took me back to that little boy, watching Johnnie Cochrane on that tiny television, sitting on the library floor, and how much larger the world has become since then.

30 DoC: 8 1/2 and Mel Brooks

A while ago, I wrote about how you can connect RAGING BULL in one step to SPACE JAM (seriously). In that same entry, I also suggested that RAGING BULL might be the best-looking black-and-white film ever made.

I might have to eat crow on that one, because 8 1/2 is ridiculously gorgeous.


I'm not the world's biggest Fellini fan, but GODDAMN:




And all of these images take place within the first five minutes of the film!

8 1/2 is justifiably praised for its lush cinematography, its brilliant post-modern analysis of the filmmaker and the film, and for all of the things that make film profs feel tingly inside. Those are all valid reasons, and I love them too, but for me, it's the humour in 8 1/2 that truly sets it apart.

The cliche of older foreign films being sombre, highbrow examinations on death and misery gets shown the lie here: 8 1/2 is steeped in sex, jealousy, and lust, and it's often riotously funny while it does it. The "harem" dream scene is a mini-masterpiece within a masterpiece, lampooning male desire in a scene that wouldn't be too out of place in a Mel Brooks film.

Of course, comparing Brooks to Fellini is a little facetious of me, but not as much as it may seem. Brooks gets a dismissive shake from the the elitists as "the fart guy", and I'm sure there are those who would argue he is more closely linked to say, the Wayans, then Fellini, but his films are brilliant skewerings of racism, scientific rationality, and politics. I mean, he even shot a black-and-white film!

So Criterion, where's the Blu-ray of YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN?

Kidding. Kind of. That'd be totally awesome, though.

VALENTINE'S DAY: By The Numbers

I once jokingly referred to VALENTINE'S DAY as the Remembrance Day of movies.


I had no idea how right I was.

I worked in a movie theatre during VALENTINE'S DAY's theatrical release, and on the day in question, a huge fight broke out between two ladies over a seat dispute. There was name-calling and hair-pulling, and an eventual escorting of people from the theatre. Ever since then, I've been intrigued to discover if VALENTINE'S DAY had the sort of power that could compel two rational people to fight over a seat.

Well, those people were just idiots. This is a miserable excuse of a movie, all the ideas stolen from other, better films. So in the spirit of the script of VALENTINE'S DAY, allow me to break down the film by the numbers, Erin Brockovich style!

-1
the number of times I would watch VALENTINE'S DAY again.

0
the number of lines Ashton Kutcher is able to deliver with emotional sincerity.

1
the number of times VALENTINE'S DAY surprised me.

2 for 1
the deal the production seemed to score on Roberts actresses.

4
the number of times I considered just watching LOVE, ACTUALLY instead.

8
the number of times the words "I hate Valentine's Day" are spoken or written in the film. At least. But wait - how many times are the actors actually saying "I hate VALENTINE'S DAY"? These are the questions your brain ponders to help you make it through the film.

10
the number of years that the Taylors, Mr. Lautner and Ms. Swift, should be sentenced to some sort of acting prison for their incredibly irritating performances. Each.

90
the number of minutes I thought this film would last.

122
the actual excruciating number of minutes this film lasted.