All I can do at this point (a month out from when I first saw this film) is add to the pile on of adulation that has rightfully been granted to this lovely, long, weird movie. Before I went to see this movie with Friends, I had read Dana Stevens‘s take on this zombie movie that will not end, not with Catwoman on a motorbike at the top of a tower of some sort, not fading to black after a heroic save, not after a collegial conversation with a good detective, not with a surrogate father–you understand. It revealed that there were going to be some comic book level dramatic and comic book level silly stakes to the final act, but that it would be told with a Serious Voice. So, I had a sense that there were some tonal issues that I should keep the pulse on. Aside from that, I had been pretty studious about limiting my viewing of trailers or any other promotional materials.
I like me a good Long Halloween, Year One, a good detective Batman story. I held out some hope that someone, someday, might just possibly, maybe, give Clayface his due. A long time ago, too long ago for my Friend to remember, unfortunately, one of the people who inspired me to start keeping track about how I feel about comic book movies had mentioned to me that his favorite villain in the Batman universe is this sentient pile of clay who’s able to transform into anyone. He’s whipsmart, despite being made entirely of clay and mostly just slumming around in the sewers with a giant sentient crocodile called Killer Croc, and his only weakness (I think I’ve got this somewhat right enough for it to have the kernel of truth that I need) is that he’s left-handed and people catch him screwing up the imitation through small dumb things like that. Anyway, I’m pretty sure that Rick and Morty has this guy’s number with Million Ants. This is all just to set the scene for my expectations going in. Is this movie gonna give me sentient clay? Is it going to try to sing me a song about how the Penguin is not part Penguin?
Central to the tension of this movie is its insistence on gritty realism, of shaving away the cartoonish elements of the source material and opting for a different shade of Christopher Nolan’s “dark”. It is in part why so much of the discourse about the problems with this film discuss its brainy villain’s resemblance to Batman’s arch nemesis. The noir feel of crime solving Batman stories requires someone who is constantly out of reach and a little bit cerebral, something that Joker wasn’t really known for before Nolan made him into an anti-capitalist mastermind, I’m guessing? The masterminds were dudes like Holiday, who killed people on Saturdays–no, I’m fucking with you, on holidays, hence the name–and the Riddler and, yes, Clayface. These guys relied on their brains because other villains capitalized on their super sharp teeth or the fact that they are cross-bred with penguins or the fact that acid made them into permanent clowns, etc., etc. The reluctance to embrace the cartoonishness of Harley Quinn’s exquisite addition to the cinematic universe in more recent years comes at the peril of The Batmen of the future, which is not to say that this movie isn’t full of its own brand of refreshing comedy.
The Batman is flush with surprisingly slapstick moments: the escape scene with Detective Gordon (played by the one true Gordon, Jeffrey Wright); The Parachute after the Bat Squirrel; any moment Paul Dano’s stupid face is on screen. I cannot tell you how stunned and delighted I was at multiple moments in the movie when it proved to take itself a lot less seriously than I was expecting. As per Stevens’s observations, The Batman elects plot over Nolan’s politics, proves to be less cerebral and more rollicking detective story, and that is so refreshing when so much of Batman and Joker seemed permanently stuck in brooding Fight Club levels of white resentment and vigilantism.
The Batman is also quietly horny. Pattinson spends more time than I expected (which was zero) staring into windows where women are changing into or out of their underwear. Kravitz, who is the gold standard for Catwoman, wears fetish wigs into nightclubs and bites her tongue when Batman unwittingly dangles her as eye candy for predatory dirty cops and lawyers. The kisses are steamy; the shirtless Batman is a welcome update.
This entire movie is trauma plot and you have to be OK with that. Everyone you talk to is going to give you a sad story about why they are motivated to do what they do and that’s not the point. The point is that if you are patient and you don’t kick up a fuss about an hour into the armchair psychology, someone is going to have their fucking parachute fail at the worst possible moment and you are going to be there to witness it. And no one, no one, is going to get on a soapbox about politics, because this movie isn’t about politics so much as it is about the complex emotional lives of tremendously attractive people and Colin Ferrell’s Penguin.
Some takes: try maybe a new actor for the Joker and/or Harley in the inevitable sequel? Props to whoever does the foley for punches. They sounded like they hurt every time.
