As a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend of the Dean-like James Franco, yesterday I decided to succumb to the commercialism surrounding Sam Raimi's third installment of the Spider-Man movie series.
Perched low in a theater filled with geriatric film goers, my palms sweaty from embarrassment, I heaved a sigh of utter disdain. My would-be girlfriend laid a hand on my arm in an attempt at comfort, but even her silky hands couldn't provide me with consolation on this incredibly humid Louisiana afternoon.
139 minutes, I thought. Two hours and nineteen 60-second spurts of melodrama, pointless action, see-through subtext, and Kirsten Dunst (Well, that last one didn't seem so bad.) I clenched the drink-holders in the stadium-seating theater and braced myself for the inevitable.
Approximately ten minutes into the film, a revelation occurred to me. Wait a minute... This is actually decent. Am I hearing myself correctly in thinking that? And more importantly, why am I talking to myself? Getting back to the matter at hand...
This is all you need to know: Raimi manages to embody the campy nature of comic books through his direction, and the roles are perfectly cast. The difference between this film and the previous two is that this is as character-driven as a plot-heavy, Hollywood cookie-cutter movie can get. Even more astonishing than Topher Grace's performance is that of Bryce Dallas Howard, who plays the adorably annoying Gwen Stacey. The villains are believable, as opposed to Spider-Man's former nemeses, The Green Goblin and Dr. Octopus. And last - but certainly not least - is Peter Parker's figurative time travel back into the 70's. Don't understand quite yet? You will when you see it.
