Too Much Blush, Gush and Slush, Not Enough Spidey Crush

Over the Memorial Day weekend we went to see a movie for the first time in a long time. The only reason for me to ever venture into a movie theater is to see an action film in its entire ginormous screen, stadium-seating glory. (I’m still kicking myself for missing out on the larger than life cow spinning out of control in Twister.)

At the ticket window, we were asked why we wanted to see Spider-Man, because it wasn’t popular anymore. Being anti-social and obviously defective, I prefer to see the slightly stale flicks. It sure beats having to sit next to a strange, squirming 4 year-old. (By strange, I mean a 4 year-old child of a person with whom I am unacquainted and who didn’t care enough about their offspring to pony up cash for a babysitter.) We wanted to see Spider-Man in the theater, because we were under the impression that there would be a lot of action and many elaborate computer generated effects. We were correct on one account.

My embarrassing confession for the day is that I am missing the gene, which seems to be common in females, that makes fight scenes and violence in movies repulsive. For example, I enjoy Star Trek films. Not so much for the Sci Fi nerdy glory of the franchise. But more for the frequency of good, old-fashioned ass-kickings. They have phasers (ray guns), force shields and beaming technology. It’s absolutely ridiculous how often the action comes down to fisticuffs. And I love it.

There is a time and place for kissy googoo sentimental slush. The time and place is not in the middle of an action flick that I just paid $7 to see. The two previous Spider-Man movies, and the trailer for the current movie, led me to believe that Spider-Man 3 would be an action movie and not a sappy date flick with $250 million worth of special effects. This is why I have no compunction about sneaking Jujy Fruits into the theater.

It was bad enough that I had to put up with the wretch-inducing presence of Kirsten Dunst, as Spidey main squeeze Mary Jane. It’s great that she’s carrying on the banner of vapid comic book heroine from Margot Kidder, but by the end of Spider-Man 3 I was kind of hoping Spidey wouldn’t get there in the nick of time. To make matters worse, she sings, not once but twice. A voice so nasal and grating, it had to be hers. Critics theorized that her agent must have stipulated that she get two songs in the film. There is no godly reason that audiences should have been subjected to the tortuous tunes otherwise.

I don’t know where it was, but Tobey Maguire’s heart just wasn’t in the movie. He should be thoroughly embarrassed that he was upstaged by the actor who got his start on That 70’s Show. (Topher Grace, as Venom, was the most engaging character in the whole movie.) Either that, or Maguire should have worn a tee shirt that said, “I’d rather be riding a zombie horse in Seabiscuit IV.” At the very least he owed his fans an explanation.

I don’t recommend seeing the Spidey 3, but I’ll try not to spoil the movie for those of you who haven’t already seen it, and choose not to believe me. Harry, Peter Parker’s estranged best friend, gets knocked on the head and conveniently forgets that he thinks Spiderman and thus Peter killed his father. Harry and Peter get manicures, talk about boys and then drink Chocolate-tinis. There’s touching, hugging and crying. I don’t have a problem with the new direction their relationship has taken, but it’s not the movie I chose to see.

Between the singing, the crying and the lack of enthusiasm by most of the main players, I’m beginning to think that instead of releasing films, Hollywood is testing our capacity for suffering. How many times can Tinsel Town ingest box office hits, churn them through its unimaginative digestive system, forcing sequels out through the colon of product placement and merchandising onto an uncomplaining public?