Top Films of 2012: Numbers 2 & 3 - The Avengers & Looper

As promised, here are Films Two and Three for the year. These, of course, are in a particular order…

Number Three – Looper: Like so many films, I’d heard about this one LONG before any real footage or info started showing up—basically because I stalk certain directors via IMDB, and Rian Johnson is one of my stalk-ees. Brick and The Brothers Bloom are both excellent films, even if the former trumps the latter. So when I heard about Looper, its premise, and the actors involved, I wanted it so, so badly.

Unfortunately, as I tend to do when I’m anticipating a film, it builds into unrealistic proportions. Sadly, when I first watched this at the midnight showing, I left the theatre feeling more than a little disappointed. Sure, I’d enjoyed it well enough, and Joseph Gordon-Levitt does a phenomenal job at mimicking Bruce Willis’ speech patterns and mannerisms (really, it’s worth it just to see this mighty fine bit of acting). But I still felt like, in the end, it ruined itself in many ways.

Then I received a ranting praise email from a good friend of mine that made me rethink the film. I decided to give it another shot.

On second viewing, everything “clicked” much more wholly than the first time. Maybe because my initial expectations had already been let down and I knew what to expect. Maybe seeing it in the day with a fresh mind, rather than one that had been up for too many hours as it was, helped. Maybe I simply saw it for what it was: a story of hope.

Whatever the reason, I loved this film, and highly recommend it to any and all. Johnson has created a future that’s as freakishly possible as Mike Judge’s Idiocracy—though even more likely. This grounding allowed the time-travel and such to simply “exist,” along with the other fantastical elements. And, ultimately, its theme of hope and “love trumping all” made this one even more emotionally engaging than you’d expect a sci-fi film to be.

Number Two – The Avengers: How can you NOT have enjoyed this film? Seriously, this is a prime example of what films were made for in the first place: an escape of pure entertainment.

However, entertainment alone doesn’t always cut it, which is why The Avengers earns its Number Two spot. This film is AMAZINGLY balanced. Yes, the majority of these characters have had their own films to build their characters and back stories. But you’d think they’d all be fighting for screen time and one might be left wondering “Whose story is this?” Yet Joss Whedon managed to give each and every character their own ideals and growth throughout the film. (One might still argue that Robert Downey Jr. takes the spotlight with Iron Man, as usual, but even so, the other characters are one small notch below him in terms of screen time and character growth.)

It’s full of humor, has excellently staged action sequences, and still manages to slip in not only some fantastic lines, but also a few “deeper” thoughts that deserve consideration, from self-sacrifice to being a part of a team to what it means to wield power over others.

I think out of every film I saw this year, not one held my attention and kept me entertained as this one did, from second one to the final “bonus” scene after the whole of the credits.

It’s times like this, when Hollywood actually makes a “smart” choice by turning such a project over to the right hands, that give me hope for future films—not only in the comic book realm, but for films in general. There are a handful of directors that may not have the “Spielberg” and “Scorsese” status, but I’ll be damned if they can’t make a mighty fine film, and both Whedon and Johnson fall into this category.

Growing Up Afraid

Mother told me to be something, so I’m afraid.— Matthew Good, from “Failing the Rorschach Test”

Unlike many of my friends that jumped from any rooftop, climbed any tree, and took up all of those “dangerous” activities like rollerblading and skateboarding, I hesitated, watching in envy, too afraid to take the risk. I remember being afraid of so many things, and no amount of   

could goad me into participating. I wanted to be accepted, yes, but my fear trumped my desire for companionship.

Perhaps this stemmed from my subconscious remembering when my two-year-old arm broke. Perhaps it grew from when I threw the firecracker punk instead of the ladyfinger, allowing that small red cylinder to explode between my fingers—luckily keeping said fingers intact. Or perhaps this formed from the animal attacks I’d been subject to, including a rather vicious bite on the ass from a strange mutt and being cornered by the angriest banty rooster known to man, with pecks like lightening strikes, coaxing blood blisters from my skin.

While pain is a rational fear, I have irrational ones, too. At age 10, midway through a solo vacation to my grandparent’s, I lay tucked away in bed and had the sudden, uncontrollable fear that I’d never see my parents again. What if a burglar smashed through the window and slashed my throat? What if my return flight crashed? What if… That sudden understanding of my mortality broke those final remnants of my sense of comfort.

I always figured that I’d grow out of such fears, such worries, such nonsense.

But in the past few months, I’ve taken to reading and—occasionally—revising some of my earliest works. I originally kept these old writings to witness my progress since those first spun sentences threaded my pages. Rather than seeing the improvement though, it amazed me: what I’ve lost in the process of my education.

My early works are fearless. I had no idea what the balls I was doing, making the writing rough and—in places—outright laughable at the ridiculousness of my attempted poetics. However, in the midst of those awkward phrases and bumbling sentences, a rawness lurks. I wrote about women that listened to dreaming mice and found more intimacy with switchblades than their boyfriends; I wrote about a delivery driver that accidently killed a man with his car, then intentionally strangles the dead man’s dog; I wrote about Mr. and Mrs. Claus and all the problems a centuries-old marriage might carry; I wrote masochistic couples that collapsed once love entered the picture; I wrote of women so afraid of being labeled that they’d rather pull their perfect pearly whites than to accept what everyone said; I even wrote about the death of God. I simply wrote, good or bad, stark or magical realism, violence or tenderness—and often, a blending of the above.

Now, there is a quiet calm that leaks through my words, toning down the once revered, over-the-top spectacles. Is this simply a repercussion of growing up, maturity budding within me—even if I can’t see it explicitly?

I love that my words have more shine, more glisten and flow, but something has been lost: my inner critic killing the ridiculousness before it ever breathes, keeping me on track for what is true and proper and socially acceptable, turning me into something that I never wanted to be: ordinary.

Though I don’t think that is quite right. I say this because of my recent discovery that I’m a phobic person, filled with irrational fears that I never acknowledged—nor did I ever realize the impact those fears had on my everyday life. But I can see now that my fear of success, of strangers, of failure, of death, of loss, of large groups, of disappointment, of rejection, of the Arapaima, these all stand in the way of who I want to be.

The Arapaima

Funny how we’re trained to believe that we can do or be anything and anyone we want to be, as long as we put our minds to it. But they never told us what to do when we’ve become what we never intended.