I haven’t wanted to walk out of a movie I paid for in a long, long time, but I damn near walked out of this one. “Man of Steel” is ridiculously awful. At best (if I weren’t a Superman fan), it’d be “Transformers 4”, another busily boring, loud, emotionally bankrupt piece of nauseating, over-indulgent, digital miasma. But if you are a Superman fan, this film is downright offensive and insulting.
I wasn’t a huge fan of the first two Iron Man movies. A little snarky Robert Downy Jr. goes a long way with me. I like him better when he’s part of an ensemble (like in The Avengers). So while it may be faint praise, I did enjoy this third film in the series most of all.
Neill Blomkamp’s stellar directorial debut is an unpredictable blend of intelligence, emotion, and cinematic whoop-ass that defies convention and leaves you breathless. It begins like a documentary, outlining how a race of stranded aliens (the space kind) came to be ghettoized in South Africa. We follow a character named Wikus, a bumbling government agent who is tasked with herding the aliens to a new camp (the concentration kind) further away from Johannesburg. The aliens aren’t pretty, but you’ll be surprised how emotionally invested you’ll get in a couple of them — a father named Christopher, and his tiny young son, who are desperately trying to find a way back to their home world. When Wikus subjects himself to a dangerous alien chemical, he begins a Kafka-esque transformation into one of the aliens, or “prawns” as they are called derogatorily.
