By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
By Claire Lawton
By Kiernan Maletsky
By Anna Merlan
The Golden Age of the Comic Book Movie has turned the color of tarnished copper. But there is no going back, not when comic shops have become movie studios' research and development labs. But no moving forward, either; the comic-book movie has become a cinematic smudge once more, one blurring into the next till they're all the same unfocused glop on the big screen to anyone over the age of 30 who wouldn't know Bruce Banner from Peter Parker. The geek will stand and applaud the faithfulness to the text; he (or she, as if) will giggle at the in-jokes and appropriation of panels lifted straight from the page; he will drop his jaw at the sight of his favorite hero blown up 20 feet tall. But, alas, what of the movie?
The Hobbit Gets Neither There Nor Back Again
Hellboy, based on Mike Mignola's beloved Dark Horse comic and adapted by Guillermo del Toro, is fanboy heroin: The cult hero with bright red skin and sanded-down horns and a right hand that fits into the gateway to hell has been loyally rendered, a gift from one self-proclaimed geek to the legions of worshipers. The story, about Nazis and black magic and doorways to hell (or an outer space populated by squid, whatever), has been culled from several story arcs familiar to the series' readers, and there are coy nods to other Hellboy tales; there is even a Hellboycomic featured in the movie, made to look like a Jack Kirby Marvel story from the 1960s. "I hate those comics," grumbles Hellboy, played by Ron Perlman beneath the red foam and sawed-off antlers. "They never get the eyes right." Del Toro, working with frequent collaborator Guillermo Navarro behind the camera and Mignola next to it, has lifted panels directly from the comic books. What was once paper and ink is not an approximation of flesh and blood, which will make the fanboy's Spidey sense tingle.
But when the filmmaker becomes caretaker beholden to the creator who lurks over his shoulder, the audience of non-believers is left out in the cold, because he (or she, whatever) will not be carried through the excruciatingly dull moments by cute asides and coy nudges. He will not understand a word of its pseudoscientific gibberish or its black-magic mumbo jumbo; a colleague left the screening wondering, "What language was that in?" He will simply marvel at Hellboy, with its replicating giant squid demons and resurrected Rasputins and scenes shot in subways and sewers, and wonder if one League of Extraordinary Gentlemenper decade isn't enough. Mark Steven Johnson, maker of last year's Daredevil, claimed to be that series' most devoted admirer, and he directed it like a blind man with a grudge; beware the fetishist armed with a camera and a cult following.
To offer a plot synopsis of Hellboyis to realize that perhaps it's time to put down the superhero comic and start reading, I dunno, books without pictures. No grown man should have to tell you about Nazis with Rocketeer helmets and sand for blood teaming up with Rasputin (Karel Roden) to open the gateway to hell, thereby turning earth into the devil's playground, which looks, in one brief glimpse, like Detroit with octopi reaching down from the clouds. (Perhaps this is intended as sequel to del Toro's 2001 The Devil's Backbone, which was as subtle and creepy as Hellboyis, well, the opposite.) And then there's Selma Blair as Liz Sherman, the fire starter who doesn't seem to start them at the appropriate time. Why, for instance, she doesn't deep-fry the squids till it's almost too late is something best left for the comics, because in the movies, it makes no logical sense. (Speaking of, try watching this without thinking, "Uh, wasn't this already called Beauty and the Beast?")
The best scenes in the film involve Hellboy's relationship with his adopted "father," Professor Bruttenholm (John Hurt), who discovered him when he was just a Hellbaby in Scotland in 1944. They bring a welcome warmth to the chill of computer-generated monsters being chased through streets and subway tunnels by a giant actor in a red body suit. Bruttenholm, dying of cancer, just wants his Hellboy to become a decent man, even if it means grounding him; Hellboy just wants to please his pop, to the point that he hides his lit cigars when the professor enters his room. But these scenes are scant, filler not to be lingered over too long lest our attention wander. As a result, the movie feels so very Alienwithout the terror, or Men in Blackwithout its smirky charm, though Perlman does ham it up like a pound of bacon.
Del Toro was once a master of the moody and macabre; his movies, the ones that worked (Chronos, The Devil's Backbone) and even the ones that didn't (Mimic), had the eerie feel of someone for whom horror was a mysterious, intangible chill down the spine, not a thudding crack over the skull. But with Blade 2 (another comic adaptation) and now Hellboy, del Toro has traded the subtlety for special effects that aren't. Hellboyis as much a wreck as The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen or The Punisher, coming and going in two weeks, and as much a bore as The Hulk. Ah, but what the hell? They'll never notice down at the comics shop.
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