Movie review: Spider-Man 3

Regret meets messy redemption: the rise of Tar-Spidey

by John P. Meyer

Well, it's official: the summer blockbuster season has begun. Spider-Man 3 opened today (May 4) in wide release across the U.S., and since it's already pulled in $42.5 million after its premiere this past week in European and Asian markets, the question of whether or not the movie is any good seems almost moot - the box office steamroller has kicked into juggernaut gear, and short of some kind of rapture event there'll be no stopping it.

And yet, here I am preparing to comment on that very topic (good or not good?): it is, after all, what I'm here for.

So, without further ado, let me offer up my opinion that it's good. And not so good. And then it's good again, followed by interludes of not-as-goodness. Are you seeing the pattern here?

Point is, there's a hell of a lot going on during the 140-minute run time of this monument to Marvel mega-mayhem, and this bit over here doesn't necessarily seem relevant to that bite over there, and the portions that relate to each other are often weighted down with loads of preachiness that might, in some viewers' opinions, verge on overkill.

We can slot the various sequences of the film into two major categories: 1) career troubles and professional jealousy; and 2) the perils of pursuing the vengeance trail.

The first category centers on the relationship between Peter Parker/Spidey (Tobey Maguire) and Mary Jane Watson (Kirsten Dunst), who - when we left them last time - were coming to terms with their mutual attraction and exploring ways in which it might be possible for them to carry on a romantic relationship, given the constantly intervening 600 pound web-slinging gorilla of Peter's secret identity. Peter/Spidey's tenuous approval rating from the fickle denizens of Gotham is initially high as we pick up the story - in fact, he's about to receive the key to the city as a result of having saved the life of Gwen Stacy (Bryce Dallas Howard, essaying the blond bombshell with believable aplomb and requisite yumminess - genetic kudos to Ron), daughter of the Captain of Police.

On Mary Jane's side of the fence, things aren't going so smoothly: her opening on Broadway draws the sort of unanimously less-than-enthusiastic reviews which might serve to abbreviate either the run of the show or the term of employment of its lead chanteuse. Which wouldn't be so bad if Peter wasn't completely blind to the sensibilities of womenfolk in general, and his girlfriend in particular. In fact, from the evidence presented, Peter's atomic spider bite - in addition to conferring upon him spidery super powers - must have simultaneously leached away all common sense. I mean, even a slick-haired used car salesman would understand that, when a woman starts talking about the bad day she's had at the office, you don't steer the topic of conversation to your own relevant work experiences: the gal wants to talk about herself, chump, and what you have to say doesn't matter.

On the perils of vengeance front, prepare to be hammered about the head with object lessons from so many quarters that you might consider taking out some shillelagh insurance. In the first place, there's Peter's former pal Harry Osborn (James Franco), who holds Peter responsible for his father's death and thus initiates a campaign of aerial combat by donning his dad's old Green Goblin gear (cool board, dude!). From out of left field (well, the Van Allen belt, actually) comes a meteorite loaded with a black viscous goo that attaches itself to Pete during an outing in the park in which he and Mary Jane are trying out his new web-based love hammock (don't worry - or do, as the case may be - all the action's chastely above the belt). And there's a blast from the redefined past in the person of Flint Marko (Thomas Haden Church, bulked up like Frank Miller's Marv), a recent prison escapee who turns out to have something to do with the death of Peter's father-figure uncle. (Thought we'd put that demon to rest? Think again.) Oh, and incidentally, Marko has stumbled into a secret (yet open-air) government testing facility and been turned into an invulnerable sand trap character with a chip on his amorphous shoulder.

Wait, we're not quite done - I just decided the previous paragraph was getting too long. There's also a new freelance photographer gunning for Peter's job at the Daily Bugle - a kid named Eddie Brock (Topher Grace) who thinks he can get the sticky-fingered goods on Spider-man's dark alter ego - and, if not, he's skilled in Photoshop.

It becomes obvious pretty quickly that the tar-like substance from the meteorite is bringing out something dark in the Peter/Spidey persona - something that thirsts for (guess what?) vengeance. While this whole metaphorical vengeance symbiote may be a totally unnecessary plot construction (did we really need a physical manifestation of vengeance? Could we not just make do with the character trait, sans personification?), nevertheless it's fun to see what happens to Peter's appearance and mannerisms when the bad beasty takes over: he adopts a Hitler-Crowboy comb-over hair style; his walk takes on a street-wise bounce; his appearance in a jazz club where Mary Jane has a singing gig - with the dolled-up starry-eyed Gwen Stacy on his arm - turns into a floor show that overshadows the on-stage performance (as was his alter-ego bad-boy intention). It should come as no surprise, by the way, that the self-centered darkside Peter quickly rises to new heights in the workplace, where ruthlessness rules.

The high-flying adventure sequences of the film are top notch, as we would expect from the previous two franchise installments. The thrill of zooming through the canyon-like streets of New York on a string and a prayer is reincarnated successfully, and the variety of villains (nay, their veritable overabundance) allows plenty of opportunity for nail-biting, vertigo-inducing action. Tellingly, Spidey's most exciting such encounter involves not a monstrous adversary but a construction crane that's gone rogue, taking out chunks of nearby offices with its wildly-swinging arm. One of the affected offices is being used for a high-rise glamour photo shoot, and dislodged models are in danger of sliding to their 80-story doom unless someone comes to their rescue in time. Let's see, who might that possibly be...?

As often winds up being the case in top-heavy effects-laden productions, punctuating incidents of comic relief threaten to become the most entertaining parts of the film. There are two such that spring to mind. One involves the irascible editor of the Daily Bugle, J. Jonah Jameson (J.K. Simmons), whose secretary, Miss Brant (Elizabeth Banks), has been put on notice to keep her boss from getting all worked up over things like idiotic ad campaigns - see, he's been diagnosed with a blood pressure condition. Problem is, to derail his angry outbursts, Miss Brant contacts him from her front office perch using an intercom buzzer from Hell: it literally vibrates the desk (and redistributes everything on it) when she rings in, doing little to alleviate Jameson's tightly-wound condition.

In another sequence, cult fave Bruce Campbell portrays the Maître d’ of a tony French establishment where Peter is meeting Mary Jane for a romantic dinner; he's supposed to usher in a troupe of wait staff bearing engagement ring-laced champagne when he gets the high sign from Peter, and a number of incidental miscues - stemming primarily from the disastrous course of the table-side conversation - lead to repeated appearances (and then disappearances) of the hovering crew.

When all is said and done (but mostly done - not a lot of sparkling dialogue to report), a species of messy redemption is achieved by those among the characters who make it into the final reel. But no one ends up in a particularly happy place: too much damage has been inflicted, both by the major players and upon them. As mere capeless mortals, we should let that be a lesson to us. I suppose.

MOST (UNINTENTIONALLY?) CHILLING EFFECT: the storm of debris and grit (i.e., Sandman) flowing down a canyon-like Manhattan street. Did this remind anyone else of 9/11?

VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCES: "I'm not a bad person... I've just had bad luck." - Flint Marko to his daughter.

MOM-AND-POP PSYCHOLOGY: "You start by doing the hardest thing - you forgive yourself." - May Parker to Peter, re. his recent mistreatment of Mary Jane.