Warning: this is going to be
long.
Second warning: this is about Avengers: Endgame, and while I’ll try
not to discuss explicit spoilers, it will, by its nature, be spoiler-y. It’s
also going to reflect my negative thoughts on the film, so if you loved it, and
want to think me a crybaby, you’re completely free to do so. Backspace now and
you don’t have to hear my whining.
I was supposed to go see an early
matinee of the film yesterday, but woke up to fever, chills, headache; my
compromised immune system picked up germs this week at the post office, or the
feed store, or the grocery store, or wherever. So I stayed home. Feeling more
than a little sorry for myself, and too anxious to help it, I looked up
spoilers online. When I got done staring at my phone in shock, and murmuring “are
you f---ing kidding me?” over and over, I looked up every spoiler and write-up
I could get my hands on.
Marvel, sincerely, what the
actual…?
No story can please every fan. Personal
whims can’t be catered to, and there’s no such thing as a “perfect” story.
Someone somewhere will find fault. As a creator, I’m intimately familiar with
the dangers of listening to the complainers; you have to be true to your
vision.
But here’s the catch: as I
blogged about on Monday, when that vision becomes about servicing a trope, or a
spectacle, or a random plot bunny you just really wanted to exorcise – at the
expense of the characters and their arcs – you’ve lost your audience. In fact,
you’ve betrayed their trust. When the plot of your story negates all the
character growth that’s led up to it, you’ve failed as an artist. You’ve
willfully catered to spectacle rather than substance, and that’s my one
unforgivable sin of storytelling.
When the MCU first got started in
2008 with Iron Man – I’ve been
watching these movies for eleven years,
so my anger feels a little bit justified at this point – it made a statement.
They were going to approach superhero movies in a character-driven way that
felt really tangible and relatable. Not simply muscled dudes in spandex, but men
and women who had real flaws, hang-ups, and emotional issues, who just happened
to be heroes. The movies were about Tony, and Steve, and Thor as people, not
about Iron Man or Captain America…or Thor the God of Thunder.
It gets a lot of flak, but I
adored that first Thor film. What
could have been cheesy and vapid was instead, under KB’s Shakespearean direction,
a Bard-influenced family drama. Kenneth Branagh and Tom Hiddleston created for
us a Loki who isn’t a comic book villain, but a deeply flawed, many-layered tragic
figure who’s become one of the most beloved characters of the franchise. And I
love watching, across Thor’s three films, the way Thor himself grows, matures,
and goes from spoiled, braggadocious prince to an empathetic, thoughtful, kind
leader who actually deserves to lead his people. Who loves his brother unconditionally,
even when he has to teach him a harsh lesson. From selfish to selfless, Thor’s
journey from Thor to Infinity War is incredible.
And then there’s Steve. That
scrawny kid from Brooklyn. Special on the inside before he had the muscles to
back it up; Steve who parachuted behind enemy lines because Hydra had Bucky.
Who exposed and destroyed SHIELD because they’d been corrupted by Hydra. Steve
who’s “not a perfect soldier, but a good man,” in a world that needs good men
rather than soldiers. Steve’s journey, through all of his movies, is about
doing what you can when you can, but moving on when you have to.
At the beginning of The Winter Soldier, Peggy tells him that
“sometimes the best we can do is start over.” And the whole film is about
starting over. Peggy did, back in the forties. She grieved for him, but she
moved on; she married, she had children, she worked her ass off to build
SHIELD. Steve, defrosted in the modern age, is arguably depressed and aimless;
he missed out on all that. But then the mask falls off, and they have Bucky, and his best friend isn’t
dead, but brainwashed, the longest-held POW in history. Throughout the rest of
Steve’s journey, he’s totally devoted to saving the friend who saved him in a
previous century; because “even when I had nothing, I had Bucky.”
Being in CA fandom after the release
of that film was amazing. The angst,
the heartbreak, the possibilities. Post
CA:TWS was, no matter how you chose to view any of Steve’s relationship, a
chance to “start over.” Steve had not just allies, but friends. He had Sam, and
Nat, and he had the chance to find Bucky, to help him. For all of these flawed,
wounded, traumatized people to build something new. Because isn’t that the
promise of these sorts of stories? The reason we project ourselves onto the
characters? We can’t change the past, but with the help of the people who care
about us, we can face our fears, we can learn to cope with our trauma and
heartbreak. And, slowly, we can begin to heal. We can still find small things
to smile about. We can go on that vacation; we can let good people into our lives
and hearts.
Bucky’s story gave everyone hope.
If he could heal from the terrible things done to him, then we could heal, too.
It wasn’t about his cool robot arm or his long hair; it was about hurting for
him; it was about hurting for Steve. “’Til the end of the line” meant something
to viewers. We wanted to watch this group of damaged characters learn to smile
again; we wanted to watch them support one another on bad days. We can’t go
back; character growth is a line that moves only forward, and we loved the idea
that we might get to see that. A respectful handling of PTSD, shared trauma,
and friendship.
Tony Stark is a character who,
throughout his films, seemed to learn nothing between films; much like Bucky in
the bank vault, all that he’d learned from the film before was wiped clean, and
he was reset, and the exact same personal drama played out over and over again.
It’s the reason his films don’t interest or entertain me as much as the others.
But with The CA movies. With
Steve, and Sam, and Bucky, and Nat – there was a chance to march bravely
forward. A chance for a bittersweet ending that preserved all the important
lessons they’d learned along the way.
Avengers: Endgame takes everything built in the Captain America films and obliterates
it. Grinds it into dust. Who needs character growth when you can just go back
in time, ignore all the horrible things that happened in the past 75 years, and
leave these people you’ve spent eleven
years building relationships with to their own fates?
I am livid.
LIVID.
What kind of ham-fisted, lazy,
craptastic writing is this?
Oh, you thought this was about
friendship and found family? About sacrifice and building a better future?
Psych. It was only ever about the explosions and fights and the spectacle of it all. Consistent
characterization? What’s that? Steve spends six movies fighting for the
characters around him that we, as the audience, were told to care about? Turns
out, he’s gonna abandon them!
I’ve spent the year since Infinity War – which I really enjoyed! –
worried the writing/directing team might fumble in the red zone. I hoped I was
wrong…I didn’t realize I could be even more upset than expected. I didn’t know I
was going to be looking at a University of Tennessee red zone fumble.
I don’t like to post anything
this negative. But, God…I’m mad. I’ve spent eleven years watching these movies,
loving these characters. And THIS is the culmination?
On Monday, I talked about the way
pushing the envelope and doing the ~unexpected~ is driving media. And the way
that fails to reward the audience that is there for the characters. I think, in
this instance, the powers that be at Marvel really had no idea why their devoted
audience was so devoted. For me, while the visual spectacle was enjoyable, that’s
not why I kept coming back. That wasn’t why I shelled out $17 for a movie
ticket and hung on every trailer release. I love these characters; when the
final chapter of your story erases all those characters’ growth, what was your
aim? Were you ever trying to tell
compelling stories about realistic people? Or was it always just about blowing
stuff up?
Something I’ve noticed in the
last few years: whether it’s books or movies or TV, there’s always devoted
fans, and casual viewers. There are those who buy all the merch, who write fic
online, who join chats, and who go to Comic-Con. Those who really obsess. And
then there’s those who go to the movies all the time and think “this is
supposed to be a big deal, might as well see it.” Both provide income for the
movie industry, but here’s the catch: the devoted fans are a Sure Thing. They’re
already snared and won’t be able to stay away. And it’s the casual viewers that
companies are trying to lure in. I think that’s to blame for about 95% of the
sloppy, inconsistent writing that happens in Hollywood. Writers and directors
are trying to draw in new viewers, taking the devoted ones for granted. What
results is, often, choppy and regressive character growth; or total deviations.
They’re playing to spectacle and not to character.
Worse, they’re also trying to get
blogs and review sites to praise their work, and the best way to do that is to
really ~surprise~ and ~shock~ everyone.
Okay. Deep breath. I’ll stop. I’m
not trying to point fingers at anyone or encourage anyone to reach out to any
creators, ever, with cruelty. I needed to vent. It’s a lesson that,
unfortunately, I keep having to learn over and over: if you’re there for the
characters, you’re going to get shafted in the end. If you really care, you
will always be hurt. It’s just fiction, though, right? It doesn’t matter? Lol –
shut up, spend all this money, and settle for your disappointment.
And THIS, ladies and gents, is why
I’m an indie. I can choose to tell my character-driven stories in a way that
aims to correct this trend in popular media. Oh, the irony of ironies, but, if
I can’t depend on others…
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