9: Review - The Spirit

The Author makes no apologies for the delay of this review. He'll assess things if and when he feels like it.*

Frank Miller must be gutted. The director’s gone from the comic writer/artist Premiership to its Sunday League within a year. What happened? He underestimated how fickle fanboys can be. Alan Moore must be pleased: that’s one less name on his list of illustrious peers.

Arriving on the coat-tails of some very unflattering buzz, The Spirit comes as a welcome surprise. Despite what every my-two-cents critic from Ballymena to Bangladesh says, it’s no debacle. It’s self-indulgent, yes. It’s gloss does little to disguise its modest budget and a more focused approach to the script would have doubtless helped. But it’s still no Underworld. Depending on your view of Sin City, you’ll be drinking in every pulp flourish or zoning out. This isn’t Will Eisner’s Spirit. This is Frank Miller’s.

An in-depth plot analysis is superfluous, such is the nature of the flick. Denny Colt is a “boy-scout” cop who gets killed on the job. He returns as the Spirit, a mysterious masked ace up the police’s sleeve. Crime happens, he punches it in the face. Oh, and women spice things up.

Tonally, the vigilante’s relationship with the Law is very telling. In The Dark Knight, Chris Nolan goes out of his way to establish the legal conundrum Batman causes Jim Gordon. Miller has fun with this same notion by flipping it. The Spirit loves his city and his city loves him back. Women and children adore him, as one very Robocop moment illustrates. This hero’s no shadow-skulker. He’s so public it’s a little weird. How often do we see Spider-Man or Wonder Woman walking around with cops in the clear of day?

The blood splattered chiaroscuro that so divides genre fans returns. You know, the one that everyone loved in 2005? Well, it’s back and blacker than ever. It’s gorgeous. The overwhelmingly dark palette does takes a while to get used to, but it works like a beast. Once the eponymous crime-buster (a spot-on Gabriel Macht) starts leaping off rooftops and thwarting muggers, it becomes apparent it was the only choice. Miller’s decision to substitute Eisner’s blue for black paid off. It would’ve been Dick Tracy all over again, if he hadn’t. Moreover, certain moments - for all the director’s unmistakable stylings - are pure Eisner. The first act swamp scrap between the Spirit and Sam Jackson’s** Octopus pops with every glob of slime and, yes, smashed toilet. It’s slapstick, minus the laugh-track. Make of that what you will.

Every woman on show - and they are on show - is impossibly beautiful. The Spirit loves every woman he meets, as his former beau Ellen Dolan (Sarah Paulson, steady) observes. Given that every woman in his world looks like a Hollywood pin-up, he can be forgiven. In a film full of near-misses and cheap laughs, this is Miller’s one masterstroke. Women, for the purposes of this movie, are no more “true” or “characterised” than men. It’s a fantasy yarn of agony and ecstasy that anyone (male or female) who’s ever been 16 knows and, hopefully, appreciates.***

When Michael Mann eschews conventional structure, he gets applauded. When Christopher Nolan takes an unlikely queue from Mann with a comic book movie, he’s a genius. Well, it’s obvious from his solo directorial debut that Frank Miller is neither Nolan nor Mann. What The Spirit lacks in composure, though, it more than makes up for in conviction. There’s no belated apology on its way from Miller, because he hasn’t made a mistake. He’s made a movie for himself and everyone with room in their heart for the best fever dream they never had. He probably has a lot more fun than he should in his Central City playground and will likely find his leash tightened in future. This isn’t a good thing, despite what his defectors say. Taut, straight-laced movie-makers are all too prevalent these days. Now, more than ever, we need a voice as noncommercial, unrestrained, and uncompromisingly bubblegum as Frank Miller. To paraphrase Silken Floss “you’re taking it all too seriously, nerdlingers.”

Watch it: ‘cos you like to watch.
Don't watch it: ‘cos you find Dane Cook funny.
Rank: Ensign (about a 5/10.)

* Maybe you should look forward to a forthcoming review of Alien 3, maybe you shouldn’t.
** If you enjoyed Al Pacino’s work in Heat, you’re gonna love Sam set to Ham.
*** There’s an essay or two in there for every link between femininity and death, psychoanalysis fans.

--

Ian Pratt wants to see what Frank Miller has in store for Buck Rogers. Yeah, he said it.