Review: "HAYWIRE"

Starring: Gina Carano, Ewan McGregor, Michael Fassbender, Channing Tatum, Michael Douglas, Antonio Banderas, Bill Paxton, Michael Angarano
Written by: Lem Dobbs
Directed by: Steven Soderbergh

Despite comprising 51% percent of our global population, it still seems that-- even in this day and age-- women still don't get equal footing when it comes to representation in popular culture. Basically, if you're a woman in films or television, you're either an airhead, nag, skank, damsel in distress, or femme fatale with shady allegiances.

And whenever there's one good/strong/independent female role model in pop culture, it seems like there's three more negative, stereotypical portraitures to drown them out. In an era where young people are heavily influenced by materialism and media-propagated gender roles more than ever, it's a shame that there are too few ladies-- real or fictional-- to give our girls the idea that they can forgo the "sugar and spice" nonsense and become empowered, tough, and-- God forbid-- kick a little ass now and then, all without being overtly sexualized.

Of course, considering how slowly our society needs to swallow such radical notions in order for it to become a reality, it's lucky that we have acclaimed director Steven Soderbergh's Haywire to help contribute to the recent wave of cinematic woman warriors to help ease the transition.

Sitting in an Upstate New York diner, Mallory Kane (Gina Carano) is approached by her old partner and lover Aaron (Channing Tatum), who seeks to take her away to his higher-ups. However, Mallory has none of it, subduing Aaron and escaping with bystander Scott (Michael Angarano) in his car. As they drive off, an injured Mallory tells a panicked Scott what brought them to this point.

It turns out that both Mallory and Aaron were partners in a government-hired private ops firm, headed by Mallory's ex-boyfriend Kenneth (Ewan McGregor), who in turn is in a business arrangement with government agent Coblenz (Michael Douglas). Mallory, a former Marine and daughter of Marine-turned-novelist John Kane (Bill Paxton), was hired to rescue hostage Jiang (Anthony Brandon Wong) in Barcelona by request of Spanish contact Rodrigo (Antonio Banderas).

After that successful operation, Mallory was approached by Kenneth to take on a simple mission: to pose as the wife of undercover MI6 agent Paul (Michael Fassbender) in Dublin as he meets with his contact, Studer (Mathieu Kassovitz). However, that mission goes awry, leaving Mallory the victim of a double-cross. Now on the run, Mallory must stay one step ahead of her pursuers, all while trying to clear her name and take down those who crossed her.

And thus describes the latest entry in the eclectic-in-every-sense-of-the-word filmography of renaissance man director Steven Soderbergh. Not one to be bogged down by one genre in his oeuvre, Soderbergh has done it all: dark comedies (The Informant), crime dramas (Traffic), caper comedies (the Ocean's trilogy), a four-hour biopic of Che Guevara, and even an experimental film riding on the lead performance of a pornographic actress (The Girlfriend Experience).

And it's this willingness to be different in his directorial output that's made me come to highly admire Soderbergh and his work (not to mention the fact that he's released at least one film a year-- sometimes even two-- since 1995). And while Haywire is much smaller in scope and scale than most action films, that very lack of flash and bloat actually gives the film its own unique personality. Much like the stealthy protagonist, the movie sneaks up on you, only letting loose when it counts.

And Soderbergh picked one hell of a choice for said protagonist, in the form of mixed martial artist and newcomer actress Gina Carano. Making her theatrical debut, the 30-year-old Carano certainly has the stunning good looks down, but her attractiveness takes a backseat to her asskicking prowess. Clearly doing her own stunts, Carano eliminated any need of eye candy obnoxiousness when it was clear that her athletic skills were all that were needed to catch our attention.

The very first scene sees Carano's character throw down with new Soderbergh favorite Channing Tatum in a rather brutal fist/knife/gunfight in a diner, and it's clear from there that she can fight right up there with the big boys. She definitely won't be getting any acting nominations for her performance, but it's an impressive performance nonetheless.

In the meantime, the rest of the big-name cast takes a backseat to give Carano room to breathe, including Ewan McGregor, the increasingly ubiquitous Michael Fassbender, Antonio Banderas, and even Michael Douglas as a shady government bigwig,

The lack of breakneck editing is a nice reprieve from the usual Hollywood formula, with very little fat on a lean, taut narrative. The story isn't groundbreaking, but the fact that Soderbergh managed to do so much with very little in terms of budget further cements his reputation as a resourceful and incredibly creative filmmaker. And the noirish score by David Holmes-- which wisely remains silent during most if not all fight scenes-- is a terrific departure from the usual musical bombast of conventional action flicks.

Despite his threats of an impending retirement from filmmaking-- which seems implausible considering the fact that he's only 49 and hasn't even come close to peaking as a filmmaker-- Soderbergh doesn't seem to let up when it comes to churning out one great film after another. I've never seen a film by him that I've considered to be bad or even mediocre, and while Haywire isn't exactly a classic by any means, it succeeds on the merits of great action, skillful narrative cohesion, and a charismatic debut performance by an actress whose buttkicking performance belies that whole "fairer sex" thing.

Letter Grade: "B"

Review: "MEN IN BLACK 3"

Starring: Will Smith, Tommy Lee Jones, Josh Brolin, Jemaine Clement, Emma Thompson, Alice Eve, Michael Stuhlbarg
Directed by: Barry Sonnenfeld
Written by: Etan Cohen (based on the Malibu Comic The Men in Black created by Lowell Cunningham)

One of the biggest and most persistent problems Hollywood fails to acknowledge is the fact that some things aren't allowed to die a dignified death in Tinseltown. Every time there's an infinitesimal chance that something can make even a modest box office gross, they take that chance, usually in the form of cannibalizing a franchise that seemingly saw its end years ago.

Whether or not that works usually depends on how it's executed; if the material is treated with a fresh, organic, and original take, it can work rather well. But more often than not, direct sequels to a franchise that ended a decade (or decades) ago are dependent on the nostalgia of those who saw the originals years earlier, even if the target audience of the newest installment weren't even born by then.

So it begs the question: when-- and why-- is it necessary to dig up the cinematic graveyard? That's a question whose answer, clearly, is known only by people like director Barry Sonnenfeld, who returns with Men in Black 3, a full ten years after the sci-fi/comedy franchise seemingly threw in the towel.

For 14 years, Agents K (Tommy Lee Jones) and J (Will Smith) have been partners serving under the New York-based Men In Black, a secret government organization dedicated to keep the existence of Earth-based extraterrestrials under wraps, as well as protecting the human race against any potential rogue aliens. But despite their lengthy partnership, the younger J has had trouble getting any emotion or even a personal backstory out of the older, stoic K.

Matters become more complicated when one-armed Boglodite criminal Boris "The Animal" (Jemaine Clement) escapes from a moon-based LunarMax prison and has his sights set on Agent K, who arrested Boris four decades earlier. Before J can figure out the deeper connection between Boris and the senior agent, K suddenly vanishes without a trace.

J returns to MIB headquarters the next day, where he learns from his chief Agent O (Emma Thompson) that K has been dead for 40 years. Despite J remembering his partner, history was apparently rewritten when Boris traveled back in time and murdered K (which also meant that K never had a chance to activate a worldwide defense network that defended the Earth against a Boglodite invasion). Determined to save his partner and protect history, J travels back in time to July 15, 1969, the day before Boris assassinated a younger K (Josh Brolin).

Racing against the clock, J must convince young K to help him in preventing the nefarious schemes of both the past and present incarnations of Boris, along with the assistance of Griffin (Michael Stuhlbarg), a fifth-dimensional Arcadian with the ability to see all possible futures-- including those with tragic consequences.

Despite being incredibly disappointed with the woefully inept 2002 sequel, I still had ample interest in catching the third installment of the blockbuster trilogy that cemented a post-"Fresh Prince" Will Smith's career as a Hollywood superstar, mainly due to the fact that I still had fond memories of seeing the 1997 original when I was ten years old. Clever, well-written, and chockablock with excellent visual and practical effects, the first Men in Black succeeded not only because of its masterful blend of sci-fi action and snarky humor, but also because of the terrific odd-couple chemistry between the wiseass Smith and the cranky, deadpan Jones.

But if it took five years for Sony Pictures and Sonnenfeld to release a sequel that ended up being not only terrible but made less money, then why would they bother resurrecting the series? Ten years later, no less? But alas, this is Hollywood we're talking about, so any attempt of making sense of Sony's logic is moot.

And right from the start, MIB3's flaws are already glaring: mainly, the fact that we've already seen this formula before. Like clockwork, we see Smith and Jones trading witty barbs that are pretty predictable. J calls K an old fart. K grumbles, calls J "Slick". Dialogue briefly interrupted by giant, gooey alien attack. J continues mugging to the camera. Lather, rinse, repeat. The film makes clear that their partnership has lasted 14 years, so wouldn't you think the bigwigs at MIB would have split them up if they still haven't made nice? Sadly, the spark between the two is gone. The fact that the obvious aging of the two stars since the last film (Smith being called "slick" or "junior" when he was in his late '20s is a lot funnier than if he's in his early '40s) only makes the viewer yearn for a time machine that'll take them back to a better movie fifteen years ago.

However, the time travel aspect is a nice and even novel touch to the story (mainly because I've always been a sucker for such stories and the maddening and ever-fluid pseudoscientific mechanisms behind such a plot device). The filmmakers have a fun time with J's fish-out-of-water scenario once he's arrived in 1969, giving the "aliens-hidden-in-plain-sight" schtick a delicious 1960's twist (a brief bit featuring the great Bill Hader as Andy Warhol is absolutely perfect).

Even better is the brilliant make-up and alien designs by MIB mainstay and Oscar-winning legend Rick Baker, who once again delivers with the incredibly detailed and imaginative alien costumes and effects. Every creature has their own bizarre, unique look about them, each with their own idiosyncrasies and attention-grabbing traits, even if they appear onscreen for mere seconds. Baker goes one step further by giving them an era-appropriate revision, making the outer space folk look the same way they were imagined by movies and comic books half a century ago.

And even though Smith and Jones add almost nothing to their characters this time around (except for a surprising climax that provides the film its only bit of real emotion), there is the welcomed addition of Josh Brolin doing a pitch-perfect impersonation of Jones, right down to the southern drawl and clenched-jaw delivery. Brolin's interactions with Smith are marginally better here, adding a much-need injection of youthful camaraderie (even if Brolin is clearly a lot older than his character is).

The rest of the cast is mostly forgettable, including an underwritten Emma Thompson replacing Rip Torn's Zed character, Alicia Eve as her '60s counterpart, and an unrecognizable "Flight of the Conchords" musician/comedian Jemaine Clement as the spike-laden alien outlaw hellbent on revenge, who can't hold a candle to Vincent D'Onofrio's hilariously degenerating Bug character from the original.

As stated above, the question of whether or not Men in Black 3 was necessary is a pointless question to begin with, even though the reported troubled production (including a script whose second and third acts weren't even finished by shoot time) might have made the question relevant nonetheless, what with the uneven narrative cohesion, jokes that mostly fall flat, neutral character development, and an unshakable sense of being dated.

Luckily, Men in Black 3 never takes itself seriously, letting the proceedings go down much more smoothly. It's nowhere near as great (or even good) as the first film, but certainly not as bad as the second. The terrific visual effects and excellent performance by Brolin make Men in Black 3 worth a watch-- even if leaving the theater immediately after will leave you forgetting what you saw as if you stared down a neuralyzer.

Those are the memory-wipers the Men in Black use.

Never end a review with a nerdy reference. It always falls flat.

Letter Grade: "C"

Review: "THE DICTATOR"

Starring: Sacha Baron Cohen, Anna Faris, Sir Ben Kingsley, Jason Mantzoukas, Kevin Corrigan, Bobby Lee
Directed by: Larry Charles
Written by: Sacha Baron Cohen, Alec Berg, David Mandel, Jeff Schaffer

Way, waaaay back in 2009, I went to see Sacha Baron Cohen's Brüno, which was the comedian's follow-up to the hysterically funny 2006 mockumentary Borat. It was a packed house, filled mostly with youngsters ranging from 17 to 20, which made me draw the conclusion that this was Borat's target audience looking for more outrageous, "Candid Camera"-meets-"Jackass" style hijinks where Baron Cohen, disguised as some sort of cartoonish foreign journalist, would cause real-life Americans to let slip their own personal prejudices and paint a broad, and at times, shocking portrait of the sociological state of American culture.

However, this time around, rather than playing the clueless, racist, and misogynistic Kazakh reporter from his 2006 film, Baron Cohen portrayed a wildly flamboyant homosexual fashion reporter from Austria. And based on the content of the trailers, commercials, and viral marketing, Paramount Pictures made it pretty clear that:

A. Being a Baron Cohen film, the movie was going to naturally push the boundaries of decency and taste.
B. It was going to be really, REALLY gay.

So, if anything, all the promotional materials gave us fair warning, and gave plenty of notice to those with squeamish and/or homophobic tendencies. And yet, after the movie finished, I heard at least six or seven folks (and that's a conservative estimate) complaining about the content: "Shit, that movie was so effing GAY!" "I didn't think it was gonna be so gross!" And so on and so forth. And I thought to myself:

"Well, what the fuck did you expect? Ella Enchanted?"

(I just realized that I made an Ella Enchanted reference in this review, and therefore the universe must have imploded. Sorry about that.)

After all, a comedian as notorious as Baron Cohen has a raunchy reputation that precedes him, and if you're going into one of his films, you'd definitely do best to expect the unexpected. As such, when I went into his newest film, The Dictator, I possessed that very mindset. And yet, while I was expecting genius satire that pushed the envelope more than ever, I left the theater disappointed that I spent an hour and half watching a film loaded with an uninspired premise, extraordinarily lazy jokes that could be seen from miles away, and a blatant waste of an otherwise brilliant man's talents.

Admiral General Aladeen (Sacha Baron Cohen) is the strongman dictator of the North African nation of Wadiya, and is living on Cloud Nine, even if that cloud is being lifted on the backs of his incredibly oppressed people. Living in a lavish, gold-plated palace, surrounded by massive security detail, able to bed whatever Hollywood starlet he wants, and perpetuating a cult of personality that includes his name replacing 300 different words in the Wadiyan language, life is good for Aladeen as long as democracy doesn't rear its head in his land.

After being criticized by the United Nations for pursuing nuclear materials, Aladeen is persuaded by his lieutenant Tamir (Sir Ben Kingsley) to address the U.N. in New York City. After arriving (and vociferously booed by anti-Aladeen protesters), Aladeen is suddenly kidnapped by treacherous forces. Escaping but deprived of his trademark beard, Aladeen is unable to convince the U.N. that he is the genuine article, especially now that an Aladeen double (Sacha Baron Cohen) has taken his place.

It's outside of the United Nations where Aladeen encounters Zoey (Anna Faris), a bohemian,  anti-Aladeen vegan co-op proprietor who mistakes Aladeen for a Wadiyan dissident, and offers him a job out of sympathy, despite his flagrant sexist, racist, and fascist attitudes. After reuniting with Nadal (Jason Mantzoukas), his former nuclear scientist that he believed he had executed, Aladeen becomes determined to infiltrate the United Nations summit and reclaim his rightful place as Wadiya's beloved dictator before his homeland falls prey to what Aladeen hates most: democracy.

At first, The Dictator hit the right notes. The first thing that appears onscreen is a memorial still dedicated to the recently deceased Kim Jong Il. Following that, we get a series of news videos laying out the playboy lifestyle Aladeen enjoys, from winning rigged Olympics-style games to bedding countless starlets (including a very game Megan Fox playing herself).

The fact that Baron Cohen's satirical targets this time around include the Middle East, terrorism, and Arabic culture would seem to guarantee shocking, politically incorrect, and truly unforgettable material. But what made his Borat (and to a lesser extent, Brüno) work was the nature of and approach to the comedy: namely, an in-character Baron Cohen acting outrageously in a real-world setting with real people not privy to the joke. By making his character deliberately bigoted, Baron Cohen was able to extract bigoted and unflattering comments from his marks (and the humor would come not from the bigotry, but the shocking frankness of their attitudes and close-mindedness in this day and age).

But unlike those previous two films, The Dictator is actually a conventional, scripted comedy, meaning that everyone involved is in on the joke, entirely depriving the film of surprise and shock value. What we get instead is a shambles of a narrative glued together with jokes and sketches that barely hold the film together. Yes, the antisemitic, racist, and sexist things that Aladeen does are offensive and edgy, but haven't we seen this stuff before? The Baron Cohen of old was able to take those jokes and make them funny by casting a critical light on the bigotry itself, but here, it's merely fodder to pad the short running time.

It doesn't help that you can predict most if not all of the jokes long before they happen. A joke about Chinese people replacing their R's with L's? Check. An unnecessarily long helicopter tour scene where Aladeen inadvertently frightens two tourists with terroristic imagery and gestures? Check. Anna Faris' hippy vegan character being subjected to every single cliche connected to hippy vegans? Check. Arab stereotype after Arab stereotype? Check.

Not only are the jokes predictable, but some of them drag on longer than humanly necessary, including a restaurant scene where Aladeen conjures up fake name after fake name inspired by signs and notices on the walls; a somewhat tasteless sequence involving Aladeen and his former nuclear consultant (an okay Mantzoukas, whose comment regarding Crocs give the film its best line) infiltrating a funeral to obtain a decoy beard; and an overlong gag involving Bobby Lee's Chinese diplomat that serves as a vehicle for a string of fellatio jokes (one involving a cameo by a well-respected actor that I would have NEVER predicted showing up here). It's as though director Larry Charles (who helmed Baron Cohen's last two films) was unsure of his skills as a director of scripted comedy, and therefore took a page from the Mike Myers Book of Cinematic Overkill (including bogging the great Ben Kingsley down with a pointless role unbecoming of his stature).

But what's probably the worst thing about The Dictator's humor is its half-hearted attempts to be offensive, immediately try to avoid accusations of insensitivity by reminding us how, you know, super-NOT-cool bigotry is (usually in the form of Faris' character), and then go right back to the offending material. You don't know whether he's trying to play it safe or push those proverbial boundaries, and it's this comedic and thematic inconsistency that sinks the film like a rock.

And it's really disappointing too, considering that there are brief rays of brilliant, Baron-Cohenesque light that shines through the cracks. At times, the "Lovable Bigot" role that the comedian perfected with Borat works with Aladeen's fish-out-of-water schtick (his late-in-life discovery of masturbation is priceless), and a climactic speech that puts an unexpected spin on the state of American politics in comparison to totalitarianism is hugely inspired.

But that doesn't make up for the jarring laziness, desperate attempts at edgy humor, poor pacing, and lack of true sociopolitical daring for which Baron Cohen is best known. My appreciation for the man and his vast comedic talents had me hoping for something great. But a Great Dictator this is not, and its stronghold on the audience is toppled long before the credits hit.

Letter Grade: "D+"

Review: "GOD BLESS AMERICA"

Starring: Joel Murray, Tara Lynne Barr, Maddie Hasson, Melinda Page Hamilton, Rich McDonald, Larry Miller
Directed by: Bobcat Goldthwait
Written by: Bobcat Goldthwait

I think everyone can agree that the world can be an exceptionally annoying place. Of course, we all vary on what aggravates and offends us, but I think you'd be rather hard-pressed to find someone who's completely tolerant of all the things-- big and little-- that make us bewildered that the human race is supposedly the most intelligent and important species on the planet.

Whether it's people talking during a movie and guys who let their pants sag below their asses, to child abusers and people who exploit others' shortcomings for entertainment, there's plenty of evidence that we've gotten pretty low as a people.

But how do we react to this? Sometimes we keep to ourselves, begrudgingly tolerating whatever obnoxious or tragically stupid things people do. But have you ever thought about putting an end to the world's perceived ills? Have you even gone as far as thinking about putting the scum of the Earth out of their misery?

It's that very kind of dark, dark fantasy that drives director Bobcat Goldthwait's dark, dark comedy God Bless America.

Frank (Joel Murray) doesn't exactly have the most enjoyable or fulfilling life. He lives by himself in a tiny apartment next-door to a loud, conceited couple whose baby keeps Frank up every night; he works at a thankless job with vapid, politically misinformed co-workers who talk about nothing but reality television; he's divorced from his former wife Alison (Melinda Page Hamilton), and their daughter Ava (Mackenzie Brooke Smith) is a spoiled brat who hates Frank.

Things get worse for Frank when he's fired from his job for over a misunderstanding regarding sexual harassment, and afterwards, Frank is diagnosed with a brain tumor. Despondent, Frank prepares to commit suicide, but stops after watching a reality show starring a teenager named Chloe (Maddie Hanson), a spoiled, belligerent terror who berates her rich parents for not getting a Cadillac for her birthday. Shocked and appalled by the sheer level of rude, annoying, and bigoted people inhabiting the world, and with absolutely nothing to lose, Frank tracks down Chloe and kills her.

Shaken by what he's just done, Frank escapes to a motel, but he discovers that he was followed there by Chloe's schoolmate Roxy (Tara Lynne Barr). Roxy, who claims to come from a broken home, enthusiastically agrees with Frank's mission, believing that they should kill only people that "deserve to die". A reluctant Frank agrees to let Roxy join him on his cross-country killing spree, wiping out the people Frank believes are destroying society.

And it's a comedy! But considering that comedian-turned-director Bobcat Goldthwait is at the helm, the heavy levels of gallows humor isn't too surprising, considering that he was behind the ultra-dark Robin Williams comedy World's Greatest Dad, as well as the bestiality comedy Sleeping Dogs Lie. Goldthwait has proven himself an adept spinner of tales meant to appeal to the viewer's darker side, and he's pretty much outdone himself here.

Within the first few minutes of God Bless America, there's a bloodbath that's not only shocking considering what kind of victim is shot, but gut-bustingly hilarious because of how shocking it is. Sure, it's a fantasy scene, but the imagery in that opening scene essentially sets the tone for the rest of the movie. As we follow sadsack Frank (a wonderful Joel Murray), he's assaulted by an onslaught of stupid people, horrible reality shows, heartless bigots, and commercials hawking farting ringtones. And for a minute, you forget this a movie and realize that this is essentially a shot-for-shot recreation of real life.

Of course, there ARE good things and people in the real world, but Goldthwait isn't interested in that. And while some might find the protagonist's merciless killing spree to be morally reprehensible, God Bless America doesn't promote or even condone Frank's actions. Rather, it's actually a cry (albeit cartoonish) for basic human decency and kindness, and Frank seemingly serves as a form of venting for Goldthwait, whose script essentially serves as a sounding-off board for his own frustrations with modern society.

In fact, it's pretty evident that some of Frank's monologues decrying the country's complacency with anti-intellectualism and materialism is a proxy for Goldthwait's rage, and most of the time, we agree with him. The on-the-nose dialogue tends to take away from the realism of the diegesis (I half expected Frank to go all Ferris Bueller and speak directly to the audience), but Goldthwait's point is crystal clear.

If anything, God Bless America is a healthy means of catharsis for those of us who agree with Frank's Travis Bickle philosophy, offering a good release for us that's far better than actually going the Taxi Driver route. I myself have shown ample frustration with some of the more annoying aspects of American society (movie theater yakkers and people who pay for things entirely in coins, I'm looking at you. Assholes). So even if God Bless America isn't Oscar material, it sure as hell serves as an effective mental safety valve.

Joining Frank on his war against stupid is a great Tara Lynne Barr, a former Disney Channel actress whose violent, foul-mouthed delivery is the polar opposite of what you'd expect from the Mouse House. Wise beyond her years (spouting dialogue that at times seems a little TOO sophisticated for a teenager), Barr's Roxy is the Bonnie to Frank's Clyde, absolutely thrilled with her mission and the supposed social cleansing. The two actors have a great and even touching chemistry, with Roxy serving as the attentive daughter Frank never had, and Frank as the father figure Roxy always wanted.

As far as political satire and social commentary goes, God Bless America is a biting shot to the jugular, and Goldthwait certainly doesn't pull any punches. As a movie, the script and overall cohesion of the picture certainly doesn't stand tall above its black comedy peers (Scorsese's The King of Comedy and the Coens' Fargo rank among my favorites). As such, the movie as whole is less than the sum of its parts, but God Bless America still manages as a surprisingly effective mirror into our darker and righteous impulses.

Letter Grade: "B"

Review: "THE AVENGERS"

Starring: Robert Downey, Jr., Chris Evans, Chris Hemsworth, Mark Ruffalo, Scarlett Johansson, Jeremy Renner, Samuel L. Jackson, Tom Hiddleston, and Clark Gregg

Directed by: Joss Whedon

Written by: Joss Whedon (based on a story by Whedon and Zak Penn; based on the Marvel Comics characters created by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby)

"And there came a day. A day unlike any other..."

As I walked into the theater, proudly wearing a t-shirt bearing that signature "A" logo, my excitement was at a fever pitch. This was the moment that I had waited years upon years for. I left my 25-year-old self at the door and sat in my seat as a 10-year-old, preparing for that which was not believed to have been possible. The lights dimmed. A giant, shit-eating grin spread across my face.

At long last, The Avengers had arrived.

The culmination of four years and five movies' worth of build-up, The Avengers was always a massive gamble. Would it be possible to not only assemble four major heroes with previously established back stories in the same movie, but to also actually make it work? A legitimate concern, especially if you're a lifelong fan of comic books like yours truly. But somehow... some way... they made it work. And in the process, Marvel and writer/director Joss Whedon managed to very well give us the greatest superhero movie yet.

Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson), director of an international peacekeeping and espionage organization known as S.H.I.E.L.D., has been busy overseeing research of a mysterious alien artifact called the Tesseract, which has the capability of producing unlimited energy. Unfortunately, it seems to also be able to create portals to different dimensions. One such portal brings about Loki (Tom Hiddleston), the Norse god of evil and mischief, who steals the Tesseract for his own nefarious purposes. Loki escapes by brainwashing S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Clint Barton, a.k.a. Hawkeye (Jeremy Renner) and scientist Erik Selvig (Stellan Skarsgard).

Realizing that Loki has the potential to unleash all kinds of horrors upon the Earth with the Tesseract, Fury-- with the help of agents Phil Coulson (Clark Gregg), Maria Hill (Cobie Smulders), and assassin Natasha Romanoff, a.k.a. Black Widow (Scarlett Johansson)-- sets out to recruit a team capable of challenging and neutralizing Loki: Steve Rogers (Chris Evans), the WWII supersoldier known as Captain America, who was recently thawed from seven decades' worth of suspended animation; billionaire industrialist Tony Stark (Robert Downey, Jr.), who also wears an advanced suit of flying armor as the superhero Iron Man; and Dr. Bruce Banner (Mark Ruffalo), a renowned physicist, gamma radiation expert, and fugitive who just so happens to transform into a massive, mindless, green-skinned beast known as the Hulk whenever he gets angry.

Also joining the fray is Loki's brother, the Norse thunder god Thor (Chris Hemsworth), who's been sent from their home realm of Asgard to retrieve his unruly sibling. As Loki prepares to use the Tesseract's power to summon an army to help him take over the planet, Fury's new team-- The Avengers-- must move beyond their differences and internal struggles to stop Loki's plot from materializing.

It's probably safe to say that The Avengers is one of the most-- if not THE most-- ambitious film projects in history. It was a plan that began with the idea to cinematically introduce four of Marvel's most iconic superheroes-- Iron Man, the Hulk, Thor, and Captain America-- with their own solo films, cross-pollinate the entries with easter eggs and references, and then finally converge into one big All-Star game of a comic book crossover.

And while those films were released to varying degrees of quality and commercial success, Marvel was nonetheless confident that they could do the seemingly unthinkable. But therein lies the problem: what filmmaker could dare to successfully bring together four characters with previously established back stories executed by different filmmakers? We held our breath in heightened anticipation.

And then we breathed a sigh of relief when we found out that the director in question would be Joss Whedon. Best known for creating acclaimed cult television series such as "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Firefly", the Emmy-winning and Oscar-nominated Whedon certainly wasn't the first choice for helming such a massive and expensive blockbuster (his only previous directorial credit was for the "Firefly" spinoff movie Serenity). But with a geek-god pedigree like his, it actually makes plenty of sense considering the man's own fanboy sensibilities (he actually did a run as a writer for Marvel's "Astonishing X-Men" series), his exceptional skill at directing ensemble casts, and his slick, pop-culture-heavy sense of humor (truly, this film is probably the funniest in the genre without delving into parody).

And it's a testament to Whedon's talents that he made The Avengers just right. Rather than try to "legitimize" superhero films by going down the dark and brooding route, Whedon realized that a superhero movie isn't a true superhero movie without that colorful, flamboyant sense of fantastical wonder, accompanied by a knowing sense of gently self-mocking humor. And yet he still manages to make it an intelligent and well-executed cut above the brainless, insufferably stupid, and noisy "blockbusters" of today.

One such reason for success would be the terrific ensemble cast. As stated above, Whedon is damn good at creating a palpable sense of tension and dysfunction amongst his players, and here it's no exception. Once again, Robert Downey Jr. is an absolute hoot as the wiseass playboy industrialist whose arrogant, ADHD machine-gun patter clashes beautifully against the wholesome, boy scout personality of Chris Evans as the star-spangled man out of his own time. Both Evans and Chris Hemsworth have a better time developing their characters here than they did in their own solo films, and Scarlett Johansson fares better here than she did in her purely eye-candy role in Iron Man 2 (most likely influenced by Whedon's skills with writing for strong female characters).

Clark Gregg is fun as ever as the sweet-natured agent who basically serves as a proxy for the diehard geeks watching (his starstruck interactions with Captain America are priceless), and though he could stand to have had more character development, Sam Jackson is an appropriately badass Nick Fury because, well, he's Sam Jackson.

The biggest surprise, however, is Mark Ruffalo as Bruce Banner. The third (and best) actor to play the role in nine years (though I did have a soft spot for Edward Norton's portrayal), Ruffalo gives Banner a loveable, approachable edge not seen in any other incarnations, and when he finally turns into the big green guy (a remarkable CGI effect enhanced by Ruffalo performing motion capture), GODDAMN is it incredible. The Hulk is by far the best thing about the entire movie, easily scoring the biggest cheers and laughs. This Hulk no longer broods and sulks. When he wants to smash, he smashes with childlike glee. And he smashes GOOD.

The action is no small potatoes either, and this is where the inner geek in us is tickled: we get to see not only characters like Iron Man, Cap, and Thor fighting alongside each other (I can't believe I finally get to say that), but they even come to blows with each other, and it's a blast to behold. The same goes for the over-the-top, forty-plus-minute climactic battle with the alien army of one Loki (a terrifically insidious Hiddleston, continuing his scene-stealing role from Thor), which essentially levels New York City to ashes. The special effects are to die for, and Whedon manages to make his action fresh, buoyant, and seriously entertaining without going all Michael Bay-fetishistic in the process. The scope is breathtaking: one scene features an uninterrupted, zig-zagging tracking shot following each Avenger as they're kicking all sorts of ass in the streets and skies of New York. Can you say "nerdgasm"? The film effortlessly cultivates a giddy, infectiously fun sense of joy whether you're a n00b to the superhero world, or a fanboy tickled pink to see these characters finally share the screen after all these years (gee, can you tell that I really liked this movie?).

There are some quibbles, though. The first hour of the 2 1/2-hour film is exceptionally exposition heavy, and the story itself-- involving that glowing blue MacGuffin, the Tesseract, which we last saw in Captain America: The First Avenger-- isn't really anything to write home about. It was also a shame to see Jeremy Renner's Hawkeye character underused as an Avenger, since he spends most of the film under Loki's control. And though composer Alan Silvestri's score is serviceable, it's not distinctive and powerful enough to effectively complement a film with such a large and epic scale.

But you know what? Those quibbles are minor, and fail to take away the sheer sense of fun, spectacle, and heart that Whedon and his cast and crew have infused into The Avengers. It's no easy feat pleasing fanboys and fangirls. There are high expectations that only a select few have been able to meet, but pessimism be damned, they did it. Three-dimensional characters, a crackling sense of humor, a thoughtful script, and loving respect to the fifty-year-old source material was all that was needed to place The Avengers in the upper echelon of not only the best superhero flicks, but also the best action and science-fiction films as well. If you will it, it is no dream. And as this lifelong nerd will readily admit, that dream has become a glorious reality. Avengers Assemble.

Letter Grade: "A+"