Irony

So instead of writing about culture I went to see an instance of the trash culture Kael regretted, a sequel even. Hellboy 2 turns out to be pretty good as comic book movies go: better than the wretched Spiderman movies, not nearly as good as Batman Begins or Ironman. The plotting is better than in the first one, where the story wanders at random before unexpectedly producing a boss battle that demonstrates just how much is gained when the plot progresses in suspense and intensity towards the climax, and lost when a scene simply shows up holding a sign saying, "I am the climax;" also, a good climax would not be correctly described as a boss battle. The new story still makes no sense at all, which is a pity because Mignola's stories are excellent, his best talent.

The characters are feeble and flat, and that would be incredibly pretentious to observe about a comic book movie, except that Batman Begins and Ironman have just recently shown how greatly good characterization helps and how naturally it can fit into a comic book plot. At least the characters are not stupid, annoying, and vile, like in Spiderman. Mignola writes more believable characters in the comic book and even in the animated Hellboy movies, so it is probably the fault of Del Toro, who gets co-writer credit. After all, he made the villain of Pan's Labyrinth, the colonel, a ludicrous combination as cruel as the Marquis de Sade and as effective as Snidely Whiplash. (I realize that the true villain is his dead father's military honor, man; but that is such a stupid idea, I will not mention it, out of charity.)

The spectacle is remarkable even for a special effects laden genre, though in the usual way the plot had to be dragged from one special effects encounter to another. Now we go into a trolls' market full of marvelous creatures doing... well, whatever it is, they are not doing market business. No problem, they are meant for sixty seconds of gaping, which they are well worth, and then it is time for a fight. With that over, now we go back to a low effects environment, but the bad guy has a little present for the good guys. He could just kill them, but he would rather throw the last remaining forest god at them, inconveniently stored in dehydrated form. He also neglects to bring water, but that lets the Mexican jumping bean of a god bounce into the sewer so it can rise up hugely out of the broken pavement. Of course in its exuberance it throws cars; you would think that audiences either hate cars and want to see them suffer, or love them so much that it is an easy way to grip their emotions, like putting a baby in danger. Possibly inspired by a similar train of thought, Del Toro then adds a baby in danger.

The worst of it, though, is that the fight is so confined and predictable. Once the god is wheeled onto, or blasted up through, the stage, it mostly stands in place, flails a bit, and promptly loses. The god is huge, but the scene is small and cramped. Will Smith's high-speed drive through desolate New York has such effect because driving is a trivial, mundane thing, but it is set on a huge stage, so large it loses any sense of staginess, evoking the wide-open feel that all the audience know from their own driving. Through that common sensation you enter into the movie's world and the desolation becomes eerie and powerful, rather than mere showy scenery. Del Toro is having none of that, and all the carefully arranged big scenes and the final battle are just as much pointless show, Hollywood-epic except when bathos interrupts. Ironman, otherwise well-constructed, succumbs to that cramped staginess in its final scene, letting down the rest of the movie. Ironman's villain is at least subtle and believable until that scene, but the Lucasly-named Prince Nuada apparently practiced sword-spear fighting for millenia only to stand around uselessly while his plans are thwarted.

I do like comic book movies, and this one was pretty good as they go, but it is frustrating to see a studio spend $85 million on a movie only to save $100-$200,000 on a cheap script or, as seems to have happened here, to hire a well-known but foolish director to cripple a good writer. Three last points: the opening puppet-battle is wonderfully and perfectly done; enough Danny Elfman, seriously; and Selma Blair is very pretty. Maybe very, very pretty.