The mystique of
Batman is complex, controversial, and divisive. On one end of the
spectrum is a story about a victim taking the law into their (admittedly
privileged) hands and seeking justice for those who have no voices. On
the other end is a scathing dissent of failed American exceptionalism and the
inherent corruption that continues to divide and destroy today. In
between is a classic noir tale of a flawed detective slinking through the
underbelly of a metropolitan leviathan, a living terror that will never truly
die and will always eat its young. Matt Reeves' The Batman knows
these truths and brings them to bear in one of the purest cinematic experiences
of the century.
Comic books and the superhero genre are a battlefield. Beyond endless
bickering on social media, the medium is a place where big ideas and tragic
themes are allowed room to breathe within the reader's imagination. The
Batman is a noir epic unlike anything to come before, using countless
cinematic influences to inject a contemplative nightmare into an urban
wasteland, sparing nothing: Wealth, social status, political intrigue, and
trauma are all on display. Where other installments flirted with the repercussions of
capitalism, Reeves dives headfirst into the complicated modern world that has
been built by war, crime, social media conspiracies, and an outright, appalling
manipulation of the truth.
It begins in Gotham. But truly, Gotham is any major American city. Fallen and tarnished, it is an amalgam of the concept of greatness and the absolutely flawed execution of an ideal predicated upon the shuck that anyone can be someone. Framed by the masterful eye of Greig Fraser, it begins as a tightly shot horror story, but it is the shadows that are of import. Noir is an American genre, perhaps because it was those within the walls who saw things for what they were long before the world became a much smaller place. The violence in this film is swift, brutal, and unforgiving. The Riddler, portrayed by a terrifyingly relevant Paul Dano, plies his murderous trade with an unmistakable demeanor of someone on a mission, not so unlike the Caped Crusader. The symmetry, the paths that we take based upon who we are and what resources we have, is so jarring it threatens to upend the actual plot. There's a beautiful duality to the Batman walking down two very different hallways, one in the beginning and one in the finale that furthers this theme. The Riddler and Batman are the same person, just different sides of the same coin, perhaps emblematic of those in the cheap seats whom those in power allow to continually battle for supremacy of something they can never truly control.
Robert Pattinson gives a career high performance. He is the Batman. Bruce Wayne is merely a specter, a torment of the past and a constant reminder of the evils that he seeks to vanquish. Down these mean streets he must go, but in Gotham, there are no angels, and there is no salvation. Zoe Kravitz's formidable fatale subverts the expected tropes by being the perfect foil, whose agency makes the perfect rival for Batman's ethical mantra. In a world where evil potentates hold all the keys, why play by any of their rules? Their chemistry is palpable and stunted, a perfect blend of abuse and bereavement and their subtle, infinitely complicated relationship is treated organically, not for drama, but for resonance.
Perhaps one of the
most vital elements is Jeffrey Wright's bravura performance as Gordon.
There's a remarkable scene of blocking, dialogue, and interplay that may be the
showcase of the entire film, made possible by Wright's talent and distinct
understanding of who and what Gordon is: He is the lens through which we mere
mortals contend with gods who walk the streets and his humanity and humility
creates a symbiosis with the audience that conjures an environment as opposed to a blockbuster experience.
On the other side are the rogues, vultures who pick on the carcass of the dying
city. John Turturro is a stalwart presence, but he is overshadowed by an
absolutely jaw dropping Colin Ferrell as The Penguin. He simply is
Gotham. All of the detritus, secrets, and excess rolled into a living
talisman of avarice. This is a dangerous man who has not yet realized his
potential, but undeniably understands the rules of the aforementioned game
and the keys are most certainly in his future, hopefully signifying greatness
in the inevitable sequel.
Flawed opulence is the presentation. While comparisons to Fincher and Kurosawa are valid, Von Triers' The Element of Crime jumps to the fore, with sepia toned surveillance sequences and notions of obsession and guilt being weapons not hindrances. It is a fascinating declaration that Reeves builds upon, using every minute of the three hour runtime as a platform for dissecting the modern mythology of larger than life personas that currently drive the zeitgeist.
It is Greig Fraser's immaculate cinematography that brings everything together. Not since Kubrick's Barry Lyndon has a film been shot in such an artful manner that virtually every single frame could be a painting, and it is a testament to his undeniable skill. Michael Giacchino's score is a character unto itself, brooding in the background until springing forth in a cacophony of rage and reflection. Despite the fury and the explosions, there's a quiet, somber air that hangs over everything, and it is these moments, particularly with respect to Andy Serkis' turn as Alfred that enhance what could have been a tired rehash to force feed the masses. Instead, there are tear inducing exchanges and revelations that bring flesh and blood to archetypes that have long been milquetoast accoutrements in an industry that thinks its audience is not as smart as they are.
Grant Armstrong's art
direction is the final piece. The art deco trappings of Rapture (Bioshock)
are summoned and given life, creating a visual representation of dream long
dead, yet existing as an undead behemoth, a fading star in a cosmos of
historical conceits, and what could be more noir? Every detail, from
The Riddler's inner sanctum, filled with journals and venomous ideas, to the
fledgling Batcave appear as relics, dangerous things whose promise of truth
come with very, very bloody strings. Pattinson's voiceovers, yet another
trope, are deployed as bookends, yet they mirror The Riddler's Motus Operandi, yet
another reminder of the divergence our circumstances create.
Now playing in theaters, The Batman is the epitome of what this genre is
capable of. Comics have always been a vehicle of thoughtful critique and
fantastical escape and Reeves’ unparalleled direction takes these notions
and highlights them while respectfully allowing the viewer to come to their own
conclusions. A sexy, hard boiled, yet emotionally vulnerable foray into
the horrors of vigilantism and the never-ending cycle of corruption within a
system that is shockingly still venerated, this is the superhero film the world
needs, regardless of whether it is deserved or not.
--Kyle Jonathan