It's not so easy being greenthat much we know. Striving with science-nerd earnestness to be more than merely a summer box-office blast-surge, Ang Lee's The Hulkregards its megalithic mutant icon with a kind of apocalyptic sensitivity. Gone are the caveman one-liners, desperate puns, and sitcom irony of the original '60s Marvel comics (I remember a bygone issue of The Incredible Hulkin which the Great Green One wore an apron and did dishes). Instead, Hulk-itude is a solemn tribulation, and poor old Bruce Banner is the Job of post-nuclear bad science, military subjugation, and patriarchal abuse.
Which was the elemental thrust of the collective Marvel revelation: Sustaining a secret identity was often the least of a neurotic, self-hating superhero's problems. The Hulkwas, from the first, the most simplistic and most angst-ridden scenario, a Jekyll-Hyde struggle wrought quantum whose manifested id was pure, rampaging youth-fury (however desexualized), and the more society strenuously tried to control it, the more destructive it would become. It was an irresistible if one-note paradigm, and as drawn by Jack Kirby, it seemed to bust out of its panels by virtue of uncontrollable muscle bulk and pubertal spite.
For director Lee and writer-producer collaborator James Schamus, Banner's stations of the cross begin and end with repressed memorieshandily surfacing, or forced to surface by evil military researchers, as triggers for mega-transformation. Banner (Eric Bana, selected here less for Chopper-affect than for an almost airbrushed blandness) is so buttoned-down that luscious lab-mate Betty (Jennifer Connelly) has already dumped him, the two maintaining an affectionate, almost-was bond despite his inability to share emotionally. Even the cause of his Monster from the Idno mere gamma bomb, but a combination of a lab accident, new "nanomeds," and a genetic miswiring inherited from his self-experimenting fatheris haunted with Oedipal angst. When the green scat hits the fan, there is no shortage of Herculean fury and demolished hardware on display, but most of the movie's action scenes take place inside Banner's beleaguered skull.
The Legend of Suriyothai
Directed by Prince Chatri Chalerm Yukol
Written by Yukol and Sunait Chutintaranond
Sony Pictures Classics
Opens June 20, at the Sunshine
Rugrats Go Wild
Directed by Norton Virgien and John Eng
Written by Kate Boutilier
The upshot is sweetly melodramaticat least, you inevitably note, there are nominal humans aboard. (Oscar winner Connelly has talking like a real person down.) For all of Hulk's attempted compassion, Lee devotes a great deal of energy to approximating comic-book layouts with flexible multi-paneled screens, jazzy wipes, and digital dissolves, and the effect, however smooth, makes you hanker for the oblique hysteria of Sam Raimi's Darkman. The Hulk himself is all-digi as well, and he's no Gollumin terms of expressiveness and physical style, he evokes a seething Harryhausen gargantua, or Kong himself, with the vague semblance of Bana's worried eyes. (Rest assured, his swath of obliteration claims very few lives, but a giant mutant poodle gets whumped.)
By far the most outrageous visual factor is Nick Nolte as Banner's long-lost father. The writers have conjoined the comic's original prick-Dad with Hulk villain the Absorbing Man, and epically disheveled in the manner of his notorious 2002 mug shot, Nolte raises the roof even before his irradiated flesh starts melding with the lab furniture. In the climactic hollering match and face-off, before the ending splooges out into an Akira-style abstraction, Nolte's exploding patriarch jacks up the story's antisocial wish fulfillment into a Nietzschean-anarchist's wet dream, but one can only vainly hope that the preordained sequel will head in that dastardly direction.
The new, glossy Thai epic The Legend of Suriyothaihas relatively little on its inner mind. A 16th-century saga of warring kingdoms and royal power struggles, Prince Chatri Chalerm Yukol's movie is lovely, large, and tedious, subscribing blindly to storybook stereotypes (this warrior is brave, this prince is noble, this consort is evil) and acted, for the most part, in a passionless monotone. Yukol, an actual Thai prince, went to film school with executive producer Francis Ford Coppola, and has enlisted his lifelong friend to handle the film's post-production, whittling down what was an eight-hour, and then a three-hour, film to 142 minutes. (Coppola shares editing credits, and the American Zoetrope staff gets the last quarter of the credit roll.)
Suriyothai is a Siamese queen kept to the story's periphery for much of the time, as the country's loosely aligned hierarchy of kings battles the invading Burmese forces and tries to keep their thrones. They can't: There are more poisonings, usurpations, betrayals, assassinations, and plottings than in any five Shakespeare plays. Still, the money shots are usually slow processions of decorated elephants, interrupted every now and then for the occasional beheading. The yarnat its best involving an ambitious concubine to whom nobody is unwhackableunfolds briskly enough, but for all the hubbub there's little dramatic fire. One dampening problem is the sizable amount of crucial incident that happens offscreen (we're told about too many deaths and invasions by messenger). Another is the childish, albeit princely, instinct to celebrate and mythologize the oppressive culture of blood lineage, a mistake the Fifth-Gen Chinese filmmakers never made in their excursions into the past. When Suriyothai is ready to make her out-of-nowhere final sacrifice (to save her husband, whom the people need more than she), the sense is that because she's a royal, she's up to it.
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