By the end of its first weekend, Spider-Man 3 had made $382 million dollars. Were Spider-Man 3 a country and were that the only week it bothered to make any money, it's gross domestic product would still be larger than the GDP of Samoa and a few other nations. By all accounts, it's the most expensive film ever made, costing Sony somewhere over 250 million US dollars.
It's telling, perhaps, that the apparent reason for all that money--the major action setpieces--were perhaps the most boring parts of the film. Unlike the second (best) film in the series, this one lacked any true standout action sequences (certainly nothing on the order of the magnificent operating room scene). Most of the villainy felt largely obligatory and merely seemed to be getting in the way of the plot.
Some critics have decried the film for being a touch too jokey, focusing more on the relationships of our twentysomething protagonists than on awesome, high octane superpower-on-superpower showdowns. But these character scenes are really where the film shines. James Franco, particularly, goes all out in painting a beautifully over-the-top distillation of Harry Osborne's arc. Dunst and Maguire's chemistry was also on target here.
There's a sequence midway through the film that actually bests the fantastic "Raindrops Falling on My Head" sequence in its predecessor. Truly, it's one of the greatest scenes these eyes have ever witnessed. Blunt, hilarious, and potent. Peter's dark side is a wondrous thing.
Despite a powerful introduction sequence, the Sandman is reduced to a very flat character of dubious motivations very quickly. Venom is rightly publicly denounced as an element that feels unnecessary, forced, and underdeveloped. Had the Eddie Brock character been better established, perhaps I could have forgiven it, but it was just too damned rushed. Too damned rush in a film that's too damned long. Again, none of the villains (except Harry's Goblin, which is the only of the trio of baddies that seems to have any real relevance to the backbone of the film) are nearly as compelling as Doctor Octopus from 2.
It's telling that in a movie with some ridiculously grand battles, the best scenes are all in what some call its digressions: scenes set in a coffee shop (O, the pie!), Peter's apartment complex (O, the landlord's daughter!), and an editor's office (O, the J. Jonah Jameson!). These are, of course, also surely the cheapest scenes in an unbelievably costly film. This is where the spine of the film is and it's glorious. Considering how slapdash and lacking in suspense the action scenes play out, one almost wonders if perhaps director Sam Raimi is making a statement about what real, awesome filmmaking is truly about.
Three stars, if you're curious.
Five years ago, when the first film was released, I made a SpiderWoman comic book. In case you missed it.
Tomorrow, we go location scouting for the next major project from Bombdotcom Productions, The Interconnection of Mr. Daily, a featurette penned by the singularly brilliant Joey Schlegel. I'll be directing. Hopefully, I don't ruin everything. Doing all this preproduction work has been invigorating.
Recently, a large group of us got together to shoot a project in 48 hours. We had missed the actual 48 Hour Film Project when it rolled through town, but still wanted a swing at it. However, doing the project outside of the usual theme or genre constraints prescribed in these situations, we wound up with roughly a dozen writerly individuals trying to pitch and write a film by committee. If you are or have worked with writers, you know what this meant: utter chaos.
We ended up producing a mockumentary about a group of adults trying to hang onto their childhoods by engaging in an annual game of Red Rover. Editing was part of the 48 hour project, but the ten minute cut that screened at the Tower Theatre's Open Mic Night still felt bloated to me. Patrick, one of our editors is probably going to cut about two minutes from it, making it tighter and (hopefully) more coherent. We'll wait to upload a copy to the website until we hav a more satisfactory cut.
Perhaps the best part of the shoot was a twenty minute, continuous take of a Red Rover game from start to finish, everyone firmly in character. The fact that I have this on tape is something truly awesome. A here's a special shout out to Jon Fairbanks, who suffered an injury in the course of his brilliant performance.
Perhaps we're on something of a roll here with producing our films. 2005 and 2006 were despairingly dry years for Bombdotcom (two short films in the last two years? for shame). This summer actually could turn out to be rather productive; we've got a couple other things on the slate.
The last time she saw Morris, two fingers protruded from the back of his head, beckoning her to follow. Allison nearly did, too. Her knees locked tight as she stepped off the curb. For some reason she would not pretend to understand, Allison could never tolerate—let alone obey—the two-finger beckon.
Morris's departing figure was perfectly lit by the stoplight, outlining his square body in green, then yellow, then red. Rain drizzled in a mist, forming glossy spots on his perfectly tailored coat, yet he held his umbrella closed firmly in his left hand; a briefcase clasped with a symmetrical, military precision in his right. Everything Allison knew he had was stored in that briefcase. Everything that was Morris was making its way across the intersection away from her, passing from her life. Yet, still, the fingers—so inviting, so intolerable. . Rain drizzled in a mist, forming glossy spots on his perfectly tailored coat, yet he held his umbrella closed firmly in his left hand; a briefcase clasped with a symmetrical, military precision in his right. Everything Allison knew he had was stored in that briefcase. Everything that was Morris was making its way across the intersection away from her, passing from her life. Yet, still, the fingers—so inviting, so intolerable.
Either Morris took naturally small steps or he took deliberately small steps, as it seemed to Allison that he should have passed through the intersection whole minutes before he did. Yet all she could do was bear witness to every little step, her mouth agape, head cocked, eyes wide, brow furrowed, shoulders shivering.
Two things confused her, keeping her petrified: First, why this aversion to the two-finger beckon? Seriously, who has that hangup? Well, Allison, apparently. And for as long as she could remember, too. Second, Morris had two fingers extended, beckoning from the back of his skull. What was with that?
Finally, Morris accomplished the other side of the intersection. In two too-small steps, his feet passed over the white line of the crosswalk. Allison stood in the center of the street, suddenly secure again to breathe. She heaved a sigh which seemed to her to conjure the large truck that stole across the intent line of vision she held on Morris’s retreat. With its passing, Morris was gone.
In the hours Allison spends squinting at the windows in the office building across the street -- the one where she believes her doppelganger works (as a travel agent, she presumes) -- she ponders that night, that September. What would have happened had she been able to overcome her repulsion to the two-finger beckon? Had she too achieved the other side of the intersection? Had she offered to carry Morris's umbrella or his briefcase? Had she stroked the two fingers she had refused? Would her brother have left his wife? Would she have discovered her doppelganger? Would that blouse still have been stained with ketchup? Would her name still be Allison? Would her 10-key skills have slacked off so poorly?
Of course, such thoughts are all for naught. The thought of overcoming her aversion to the two-finger beckon was too fanciful to occupy her mind even in the time spent squinting at the building.
Most things in life are disappointing. As I'm sitting here, conjuring up a mental list of things that are disappointing, I'm realizing that it would be a hell of a lot easier to put together a list of things that aren't disappointing. And those would be maybe the top three or four movies on my Greatest Films Ever list, most of Elliott Smith's albums, and John Kennedy Toole's A Confederacy of Dunces. After that, I'd have to put my pencil down.
Good thing I'm not here to compose such a list, then. Instead, I've decided to write this post to elaborate on a particular, peculiar form of disappointment: a new cell phone.
Since about July of last year, I've had phone problems. My handset at the time broke and -- because I wasn't due for an upgrade (and refuse to spend $200 or more on a phone that will break within two years) -- I went through two problematic used phones in the interim. So, I was finally eligible for an upgrade on May 1st.
This is what I use my phone for:
Making calls
Receiving calls
So, when presented with about a dozen different options for free phones, I get a little confused. I consider myself a fairly tech-savvy person. But when it comes to cellular phones, I. Just. Don't. Care.
However, looking at them on my service provider's website, I start to get a little anxious. This one's really shiny. This one's thin. This one's so tiny, that it's awesome. This one's actually kind of sexy.
Finally, as arbitrary as it may be, I've made a decision! So, I track the package. Anticipation. FedEx drops it off yesterday. I tear through the tape. The phone charges. I insert my SIM card. Do a test call. Hey, it works!
There are those moments in my life where I realize that I am a horrible, horrible nerd. Geek. Whatever. It would appear that when I wasn't looking (or maybe I was just imperceptive before), Google, in its infinite wisdom, granted Gmail the ability to function as a POP3 client.
This made my day. I was fooling around with the "Settings" tabs, really looking for nothing more than a new setting to set. Already, I've integrated two of my other accounts -- my bombdotcom.net account and another Gmail account -- into my primary Gmail account. It's fantastic. I receive that mail in my inbox and can send from any of my three email addresses.
Sadly, my bombdotcom.net address has pretty much become a spam account. Within hours (the time it took to download a massive backlog of messages I never checked), the messages in my spam folder increased by 48,000%. Somehow, I enjoyed that.
Seriously, I'm riding off some kind of endorphins because of this.
A short time ago, I blogged about the Virginia Tech shooting. It was hasty and rambling and lacking in any sort of profundity. Since then, the media flared up into the full-on circus that I feared and expected. Most of the media outlets I listen to or read have reduced the coverage to a minimum. But last night at a grocery store, I was faced with the appalling tabloid cover promising juicy details on the killer's hidden homosexual life. Seriously.
There are few things more groanworthy than a bunch of middle-aged, white people claiming the significance of a Korean film (the incredible Oldboy) they haven't seen. People find themselves struggling madly for these answers when there aren't any, and will recklessly implicate things based on little more than conjecture and without a real consideration for actual psychology. The New York Times's A. O. Scott wrote an excellent reaction to this line of inquiry that I agree with wholeheartedly. It's a level-headed take that's much needed if we're going to continue absurd dialogues like this.
By the end of its first weekend, Spider-Man 3 had made $382 million dollars. Were Spider-Man 3 a country and were that the only week it bothered to make any money, it's gross domestic product would still be larger than the 
Despite a powerful introduction sequence, the Sandman is reduced to a very flat character of dubious motivations very quickly. Venom is rightly publicly denounced as an element that feels unnecessary, forced, and underdeveloped. Had the Eddie Brock character been better established, perhaps I could have forgiven it, but it was just too damned rushed. Too damned rush in a film that's too damned long. Again, none of the villains (except Harry's Goblin, which is the only of the trio of baddies that seems to have any real relevance to the backbone of the film) are nearly as compelling as Doctor Octopus from 2.
