The Dark Knight REVIEWED!

The wonderful Jon Tvrdik will be reviewing the new bat-flick in The Reader this week. That said, having seen the IMAX-tastic non-nippled return of the leather fetishist last night, I can't help but pen my own, nonsanctioned, nonspoilerific review...that's right, I am like the Ronin, I serve no master with this one.


Drink the Kool-Aid
The Dark Knight actually is that good

I'm disappointed.

The Dark Knight didn't do my taxes or help me lose five pounds, Heath Ledger's performance was not accompanied by a choir of angels humming Hallelujah (the Leonard Cohen version or the hymn) and, despite the assurances of almost all critics who attended advance screenings, the whole thing could not be favorably compared to a perfect sexual experience. As it turns out, The Dark Knight was simply incredibly good, which actually makes it somewhat of a disappointment in light of advance praise that would make Donald Trump's hype-mongering appear restrained.

Let's take a step back and deal with the quote-whoring Peter Travers, the League of Fanboys on the Internet (who likely wear costumes only slightly less effeminant than Lex Luthor's purple leotard) and the wave of usually intelligent and reserved critical masses. See, what happened here is that, despite claiming to be open-minded and having given decent-to-great reviews for several comic book films, most of the critics simply hadn't experienced the true genius of the genre before. They weren't weaned on Watchmen, suckled on Sandman or fed Frank Miller. A part of them still believed that the genre was beneath them; they believed that, at best, superhero movies were well-done mass entertainment, pleasing brain candy, diversionary fare and nothing more. What happened here is that Christopher Nolan kicked them so hard in the baby-makin' parts that they ruptured their hyperbole spleen. The long and short of it is, no movie could stand toe-to-toe with the Muhammed Ali-esque descriptors dished out by these guys and not get TKO'd.

That's an awfully long disclaimer to get to the meat-and-potatoes of it all. Simply put, The Dark Knight is hands-down the best film of the year so far but not for the reasons that the aforementioned praise mongers have given.

The film opens shortly after the conclusion of Batman Begins, with crime having receded in Gotham City thanks to the presence of a certain leather-clad dude (no, not Paul Stanley). Batman (Christian Bale) has made in-roads in the fight against the mob, with Falcone (Tom Wilkinson) still in Arkham Asylum, the streets are now run by Salvatore Maroni (Eric Roberts) and other second-tier gangsters. Sensing an opening, Batman and now-Lieutenant Gordon (Gary Oldman) hatch a plan to hit the gangsters in their pocketbooks, attacking the banks where they stash their money (first Indymac, now this...not a banner week for banking in America). Meanwhile, a violent anarchist dressed like a clown who calls himself The Joker (Ledger) is stealing the money before Batman or the cops can track it.

Frightened, the gangsters cough up their cash to Lau (Chin Han), a crooked businessman who takes the money from the banks to his place in Hong Kong. Without the money or Lau's testimony, noble new District Attorney Harvey Dent (Aaron Eckhart) is using his hands to paddle up a certain poo-infested stream. Thankfully, Wayne Enterprises front-man Lucius Fox (Morgan Freeman) has been working with Lau's front company and can locate him in Hong Kong, allowing for some hot Bat-in-China action.

On the home front, Bruce Wayne's codpiece is still dedicated solely to the lovely Rachel Dawes (Maggie Gyllenhaal), who won't touch his bat-pole until he's done with the whole superhero schtick. Despite the insistence of his loyal man-servant Alfred (Michael Caine) that doing what's needed requires sacrifice, Wayne sees an opening with Dent. The way he figures it, if Dent is the noble public face that can inspire Gotham to greatness, what do they need of Batman's overt sadomasochism? Problem is, the Joker figures this out too, and his desire to unravel what has been perfectly raveled leads the three men into a menage-a-tois of psychological torture that results in disfigurements, destruction and death.

If it sounds like a long plot, don't worry, it has more than 2 and a half hours to get it all done. Normally, this is the part in the review where the word bloating comes up, where I prescribe some movie Midol in the form of editing to help with the water weight. Not here. Writer/director Christopher Nolan and his brother Jonathon managed to compose a film that was exactly as long as it needed to be. Many reviewers have praised this film as the Godfather II or Empire Strikes Back of superhero movies. It isn't. It's too terrifying, too relentless. Nolan himself likened it to Jaws, with Ledger as the toothy antagonist. That's a bit closer, but still an imperfect comparison. The truth is, there hasn't been a film quite like The Dark Knight, which uses a deceptively powerful score from Hans Zimmer and James Newton Howard (who have been relentlessly unimpressive in recent memory) to cause 150 plus minutes of pure tension.

The obvious culprit for the perpetual fear induction is Ledger, who is worthy of nearly half of his posthumous praise. Sure, that may not sound like much, but considering every review has mentioned that he is an Oscar nominee shoo-in and some have even called it one of the best performances in the annals of film, half-worthy translates to simply fantastic. The key is that Ledger never overdoes the verbal tics, maniacal laughter or insanity. In fact, his only mannerism is perpetual lip licking, his laughter is a perfectly sinister giggle and he is quite sane, just depraved. Nolan's best move was not providing a backstory for the Joker, allowing the character to spit lie after lie about how he got those scars and why he is how he is. The most depressing answer is the one provided: who knows?

All other performances are almost as splendid. Caine, Freeman and Gyllenhaal all shine in their limited roles, while Eckhart plays a second fiddle to Ledger with dreams of first. The only disappointment is Bale, who once again exposes the inferiority of the character of Batman to heroes like Spiderman. Dress him up how you want, the Bat is pretty one-dimensional. Moreover, Bale's bat-growl seems slightly sillier here, his costume still gives him a fat head, his Wayne is a little too callous and stupid and he just isn't as appealing as his villains, never has been.

Visually, in IMAX in particular, the film is such a ridiculous leap from the first that it is as though a different director climbed behind camera. The whole perspective of the film is from the top looking down, with nearly every shot swooping from above. The action scenes are a far cry from the chop-suey ones in the first flick, with each punch landing with thudding brutality. If you're in a theater with the bowel-quaking sound, you will actually feel the mastery of the fisticuffs. The bat-gadgets remain marginally plausible and provide for spectacular practical effects. I cannot stress this enough: If IMAX is an option, exercise that option.

But, despite the fluffy praise they've been given, it isn't the performances or the visuals that make the film what it is. The script is so jam-packed with nuanced philosophies and moral conundrums, the dialogue is so beautiful in its plausible simplicity and the plot is so admirably linear and lean that the writing flat-out steals the show. Obvious references to post 9/11 policies, brilliant dilemmas about the difference between heroism and public service, truly impossible relationship issues and a relentless pattern of spectacular events all mesh in a way that is truly exemplary. The best moment, the one I can't speak of directly, allows the Joker to place Batman in a position to expose himself as truly selfish, demonstrating that he really isn't all the things he claims to be. Really, this is all the Joker wants in the first place; he isn't insane so much as he is hyper-sane, he is so reflective he believes he has figured out the soul of every person. In truth, he outsmarts every single character in the film.

The Dark Knight is a classic and it is easy to see how quickly others have fallen in love with it. I'm going to check out a non-IMAX screening before I render my final, life-long verdict on the matter, but hyperbole be damned, one thing is for sure: If this isn't the best comic book adaptation of all time, it's at least one of them.

Grade - A+

An Open Letter to Brett Favre

Hey Brett,

I just wanted to drop a line and say thanks.

See, I'm a Bears fan...so I've hated you for, like, forever. While all broadcasters, sports fans, women, children, babies, small woodland creatures, and foreign dignitaries described your presence on this earth as exhilirating to the point that a return trip by the messiah would seem pedestrian by comparison, I've been boiling a big, smelly, festering pot of hate for you. Oh, I've felt guilty about it, as all "true fans of the game" are supposed to worship at the alter of your "passion for the game." I never bought it. Adrift in a sea of cheeseheads, beset on all sides by the number 4 (a digit I now hate so much that I refuse to play Connect 4, would fist-fight Mr. Fantastic or the Invisible Woman, and will teach my children to count 1, 2, 3, 5, 6), I refused to buy in to the hype.

Not only did I question the inappropriate amount of praise for your on-field performance (you did throw the most interceptions by a quarterback in history, easily cost your team as many games as you won them, often floundered in the postseason, and set a consecutive game record with the assistance of a perscription drug addiction...which I only mention because I'm guessing perkosetting yourself into oblivion is one way to "play through pain" as you are always lauded for doing), but I had this feeling like you weren't "an abassador of the game," who "just wanted to play for the right reasons," and "put your team above yourself." I just never had proof.

Then things turned around, just as my beloved Bears dovetailed into oblivion and I feared I was in for another Green Bay Super Bowl appearance, you did it again. Tossing an interception in overtime to lose a bid to the Super Bowl was just the best present you could have given me...right until you retired. I was elated that, although I would be subjected to weeks of sports radio and television anchors fighting over who could best polish your knob, it would all finally be over soon. But Brett, oh Brett, you had so much more to give me.

When the rumors of your wanting to play again came back, they were amusing but expected. Texting the owner was funny, and obviously pursuing the return while saying publicly that they were "just rumors" was equally amusing. But the coup de gras was so sweet, I'm still coming down from a sugar high. You do an interview, on Fox News no less (apparently the Enquirer and Reader's Digest were busy) with Greta Van Sustren (again, Nancy Grace must have had previous engagements) where you proceed to expose yourself as the glory-seeking, selfish, whiny, obnoxious douchebag that I had always hoped in my heart of hearts that you were.

For awhile, I thought I was making the whole thing up, that you really were a "team guy" who "embodied the game," no matter how much I hated it. Thank you so, so much for proving that my initial douchebaggery theory was correct. First you contend that you were bullied into retiring early. Oh, poor Brett, not given the luxury of leaving a professional sports franchise with a chance to win a championship in flux while you take some vacation time and enjoy the media frenzy around whether or not you're coming back. How could they do this to you? I mean, sure there's like 60 other players who have to move forward, but they can wait for you, right? You're Brett friggin' Farve! Douchebag score - 2

Then you demand, not to play for the Packers - your team to which you are so loyal, who has waited through 3 years of your "no, I quit...no, I stay...no, I quit" mambo, who you supposedly "put above yourself" - you demand an unconditional release. Not a trade, but a release. Which won't help your team at all, will turn your legacy with that franchise into something painful for the fans who have watched your drug-addled consecutive start streak while pledging their undying love for you. I mean, this actually made me feel sorry for Packer fans...PACKER FANS. Douchebag score - 5

Then came the big tamale, the final, juicy ego turd you could lay. You torch the whole village, blasting the owners for not signing Randy Moss and certain lineman and throw the current coach under the bus, asserting that they should have gone with Steve Marruci, who is such a hot property he is still not coaching in the NFL. Wow...just...wow. This soap opera you seem to be enjoying that orbits around you is only ruining the minds, moods, and preparations of the Packers and their fans...so thanks for that, too. Douchebag score - 10.

Again, thank you for finally making those years of baseless accusations hold merit. I didn't think I'd ever see the day that I would have evidence that could support my unbearable hatred of you...I really want to thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Sincerely,
Ryan