Director: Nia DaCosta
Stars: Iman Vellani, Teyonah Parris, Brie Larson
A little over two years ago I decided to stop covering Marvel movies on here, having grown tired of their monoculture ubiquity and stranglehold on multiplex cinemas. Not too long ago it was de rigueur for chains to show 20 or more screenings of a new MCU movie per day, squeezing out any or all competition. Along with the bland CG sludge of these increasingly identikit efforts, their further exploration seemed moot. More simply, I just stopped fucking caring. In that time I have kept up with the films at my leisure and they’ve almost all been outright disasters. I definitely haven’t found recourse to explore their television output.
But The Marvels piqued my interest for a few reasons. The disparity in the initial reactions from film critics is inherently intriguing – where would I land, who would I favour? The relative brevity of the running time differentiates this one all by itself (100ish minutes? After the undisciplined slogs of Wakanda Forever or Guardians 3 that’s a big draw). Plus my fondness for the work of Nia DaCosta (her Candyman is a real grower; you can double my initial score) and anything featuring Teyonah Parris. I also noted – with some perverse enjoyment I must admit – that even the multiplexes are losing faith. Only 6 screenings per day? That’s a significant drop. Is Marvel becoming the underdog??
Not quite. The undersell might be Marvel’s own nerves with this one. And to begin with you can understand why. The machine is grinding on as ever, and it is even less forgiving to fair-weather viewers than ever. All that TV homework that they set you? You’re going to need to do that. Straight out of the gate – and this thing fucking barrels along – that proved an almost insurmountable handicap.
Kamala Khan aka Ms. Marvel (the bubbly Iman Vellani) was reasonably easy to get a handle on (though her animated recap looks stutteringly shoddy in the wake of Across the Spider-verse), but what all’s been happening with Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson) and these green alien dudes? Am I supposed to be able to remember the plot of Captain Marvel after so many other interchangeable escapades? There’s a lot of speed-run waffle about “jump points” (basically worm holes) and Kree that assumes the kind of die-hard fandom I was not bringing to the table. Editorially speaking, the first half-hour The Marvels feels like an absolute hatchet job (flashbacks within flashbacks), carelessly scattering its players across the board before changing up the game.
Making this all-the-more chaotic is the conceit that Kamala, Carol Danvers (Brie Larson) and Monica Rambeau (Parris) have all had their powers cosmically interlinked so that they swap places with one another any time (but not every time) they use them. These initial switcheroos are defined by their confusion, and they’re thrown upon us at breakneck pace. Like being on a rollercoaster its somewhere between exhilarating and overwhelming, and things don’t really let up. Throw in an underdeveloped Villain of the Week in the form of Zawe Ashton’s intergalactic accessoriser Dar-Benn and trouble at Nick Fury’s (apparently) already-established space station, and The Marvels veers close to bedlam. Superhero soup.
That nippiness is bracing though, almost as if DaCosta (or, lets be real, Kevin Feige) were trying to replicate the breathless vibe of those animated Spidey films. Many of the usual latter-day Marvel problems assert themselves through all this. Sloppy green screen work. Rushed VFX. Harsh tonal lurches. But the dialled-up urgency doesn’t really allow much time to hold on to any particular complaint for more than a moment.
Watching this thing feels like being launched into fucking space.
But in the midst of this chaos something shines through, and that’s the interplay between the leads. Larson is very likable as Danvers, even if the character’s powers seem both god-like and arbitrary; she seems genuinely happy to be there (if she’s not then, damn, maybe she did deserve that Oscar). Newcomer (to these eyes) Vellani injects those buzzy Gen Z vibes, but without resorting to the kind of hyper-intense mania that corporate fodder usually assumes that ought to mean. Kamala often feels like a playful jab in the ribs of Marvel fandom as she goes saucer-eyed over Danvers. Like, calm down, kid. Parris’ Rambeau, then, has the less showy task of keeping this happenstance trio grounded and plays the emotional baggage. Individually they’re all fine, but together… they spark.
The comedic interplay between them doesn’t feel as forced or performative as, say, James Gunn’s with the Guardians. It’s easy, silly, even a bit campy. And the story DaCosta and co-writers Megan McDonnell and Elissa Karasik have forged rather cleverly asks them to work as a team whether they’re inclined to or not. The Marvels is at its most affable when montaging their unity to Beastie Boys banger “Intergalactic”. The movie also features some of the MCU’s weirdest swings outside of Waititi’s offerings. A planet where song and dance is the language offers giddy fun, though not offering up a showstopping group number feels like a gross missed opportunity. Then, later, an undercooked Tribbles plotline at Fury’s galactic service station gives way to some delirious nonsense set to “Memories” from the Cats soundtrack. That’ll be back in your head after the credits roll, whether you want it there or not.
All of which is to say that, as much as The Marvels feels rushed and disordered, these very elements create their own rather appealing vibe, one preferable to the ponderous urge to go epic that these blockbusters seem so eager to pivot toward. Like a comic book, actually, its fast and silly and – for the first time in a very long time – has a gang that’s actually pretty easy to root for with some nicely played humanity.
The end piles on more mystifying tidbits of MCU lore, passing the baton to whoever and whatever’s next. If DaCosta’s fingerprints aren’t stylistically evident in this thing (she’s more or less conceded to Feige’s unending vision), her impact can be felt in the movie’s broadly – and pleasingly – diverse array of casting choices, which leave only Larson shooting through the sky as a shiny white saviour. Still, if Marvel can keep things this brisk and punchy – and maybe even this chaotic – maybe I’ll be back again some day.
The Lost Highway Hotel 