So. Spidey 3. Saw it last night. Yes, it was cheese. Huge cheese. And sure, the acting, lines and plot were… well, comic. But then, who ever accused the last two of being high art?
Okay, I suppose I should back up a bit. After reading various reviews on LJ over the weekend, I was a bit apprehensive about going to the showing we had purchased tickets for Sunday evening. In IMAX. Because if it was going to be head-poundingly bad on a regular screen, what unknowable pain were we signing ourselves up for in large format? Like in most cases, the worries outweighed the cause. I was amused by the movie. I had no urge to storm out in disgust, though a good portion was spent trying not to giggle. It was a cheesy summer action flick. It had chases and explosions, villains and spandex, CGI and random dance sequences. This was all I really expected, and I was not sorry when I left the theater.
Which leaves me with the puzzlement of what all the fuss was about? Given, I was seeing it from nearly the front row in IMAX, which meant that we were so busy moving our heads back and forth to keep up with the screen that brain function might have been reduced by the accompanying whiplash. Given, I’ve never been a huge follower of the book series, so mostly remember it from re-runs of bad television. Given, I’m actually rather fond of cheese a good portion of the time. Given, I’ve been out of fandom for quite some time and even when I was at the pinnacle of geekiness, I was never really part of the Raimi/comics cults in quite the way many of my friends were. But from what I remember, that was all about the cheese as well.
Y’see, I refused to see the first film back when it came out because I’d heard of a few lines of dialogue and was horrified that the poor actors had to deliver them with straight faces. After I reconciled myself to the cheese, though, I went back and watched it to find that it was rather entertaining. As was the second one, which also bordered on farce most of the time. This third one was simply a case of what must follow. The mating of Velveeta and Kraft Singles does not produce a camembert.
Having already made peace with myself on this count, I was able to concentrate on more important things through the next two hours plus. Like my embarrassed guilt over finding Emo!Peter rather hot. I’m a sucker for eyeliner, y’all know that. And the snazzy new clothes that actually fit him didn’t exactly detract either. Sadly, I cannot say the same about what the costume department were thinking when they clothed MJ. (Something which I feel quite bad about saying, by the way, since I actually met these very nice designers a few months back, whilst wandering the labyrinthine basements of Sony Production trying to locate a non-existent office. They were kind enough to draw me a map back out, and to the place that I was looking for, hence averting the disaster that would have befallen — both to myself and the production I was working on — if I’d been stuck down there for the rest of my life, living off of discarded scraps of lunch bagels from passing studio goons.)
So yes, I am sorry to say that MJ’s wardrobe was rather lackluster. And not in the shabby chic “I shop at vintage stores along Melrose” way of the past two, but in an ill-fitting “I just found these in my grandmother’s closet and can’t afford to get them altered” sort of way. No, seriously, I couldn’t take my eyes off the armpit pudge that was magnified to IMAX proportions in front of me during the entire dinner proposal scene. It was rather horrific. And most of those skirts were just making her look so much more hippy than I know for a fact she is. And not the 60’s flowerchild sort of hippy, but the “I can bear 12 children and still plow the fields before dinnertime” sort of hippy. Gack. Let’s not even have conjecture over what era Gwen and her Spice Girl model friends were teleported from for that office building photo shoot. *facepalm*
So in conclusion… Spidey 1: Velveeta. Spidey 2: Kraft Singles. Spidey 3: Cheese in a can. All overly-processed, kinda gummy and go quite well with those questionable movie nachos that your stomach is always sorry you bought the next morning. Welcome back, summer movie season.