Deadpool (Tim Miller, 2016). And so we’ve reached the point in the superhero era of cinema that allows for a caustically deconstructionist take on the genre to become one of the biggest hits of the year. There might be no better methodology for tracing the chronology of the genre’s takeover than measuring the comparative impact of Mystery Men (a dud in 1999) to Kick-Ass (a solid hit in 2010) to Deadpool (a sensation in 2016). Technically, Ryan Reynolds first played Wade Wilson in the dismal X-Men Origins: Wolverine, release in 2009. Besides the smirking countenance of the actor, that iteration of the character bears no resemblance to the jabbering, comic sadist who romps through Deadpool. Taking cues from most of the Marvel comics featuring the character, director Tim Miller and credited screenwriters Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick imbue Deadpool with an awareness of his own fiction, letting him comment on the narrative manipulations and pile-up of tropes that dog him as he marauds against a big batch of colorfully brutal opponents and tries to rescue his lady love (Morena Baccarin). It has amusing moments, but the redundancy of the central gag wears thin quickly. Reynolds reverts back to the Jim Carrey, Jr. routine that sustained him when he was one of two guys hanging out with a girl in a pizza place, which only demonstrates how tiresome that performing style becomes when not laced with Carrey’s dark ingenuity.
Which Way Is the Front Line from Here? (Sebastian Junger, 2013). Subtitled “The Life and Time of Tim Hetherington,” this documentary essentially serves as Sebastian Junger’s tribute to his co-director on the exceptional Restrepo. Hetherington was a photojournalist with a special commitment to fearlessly documenting some of the most dangerous corners of the planet. He was killed after being hit by shrapnel while on the ground covering the 2011 Libyan Civil War. More of an admiring remembrance than a sharply-drawn piece of cinema, the film does make a compelling argument for the immense contribution of those reporters, whether armed with cameras, audio recordings, or notebooks, who put their lives on the line to bring stories of global dismay to the public, a reminder that couldn’t be more timely.
Killing Them Softly (Andrew Dominik, 2012). Director Andrew Dominik’s follow-up to The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford aptly illustrates the strengths and weaknesses of his filmmaking approach. More pertinently, it shows just how those opposing qualities intertwine, resulting in a hopeless knot. Based on the 1974 crime novel Cogan’s Trade, Dominik’s film maintains a sleazy, downscale vibe that calls to mind the urban noir films of that era, but updates the action to the fall of 2008, drawing in the presidential contest between Barack Obama and John McCain and the financial collapse that shaded it into a rueful Greek chorus, singing from televisions and radios in the background of various scenes. It’s presumably meant to give the proceedings a different heft, a heightened pertinence. Instead, it’s a busy distraction from the meaty dialogue and decent, lean drama involving the layers of retribution surrounding a poker game robbery. There’s similar conflict with the visuals, which are both marvelously shot (by Greig Fraser) and sometimes so fussed over they become stultifying. One sequence involving an assassination on the roadway is prime example. It’s objective resplendence doesn’t prevent it from being woefully indulgent.
Very Semi-Serious (Leah Wolchok, 2015). This documentary about the cartoons that speckle the pages of The New Yorker is wispy and enjoyable. While a few of the figures who move through the film are fascinating, notably the endearing oddballs Liana Finck and Edward Steed (the latter of whom approaches genius in his comic creations), the film is strongest as a consideration of process. In detailing the multitude of steps required before a cartoon sees print, director Leah Wolchok highlights quietly makes the argument that nothing should be taken for granted, even that material that, at first glance, appears to be little more than filler.
In the Heart of the Sea (Ron Howard, 2015). Adapted from Nathaniel Philbrick’s history of the travails of the sailors aboard the whaleship Essex, a story that helped inspire Herman Melville’s Moby Dick, this attempt at a resounding adventure film is primarily notable for its grinding dullness. Ron Howard capably handles the sequencing of shots — despite swirling chaos, there’s rarely confusion about what is transpiring — but can find no passion within the tale. The various characters are thin as fraying thread, informed more by cliche than recognizable humanity.