Trying to resist the cinematic lobotomy Hollywood pulls on viewers
every summer, I have come up with a movie-going strategy that involves lowering
expectations. If, stepping into a theater, I expect nothing, then the films
that offer nothing or close to it (After Earth, The Hangover Part III, Man of Steel, R.I.P.D.) will not disappoint as much. And every once in a while, I
will be surprised by a movie that offers everything: story, character,
excitement, action, intrigue, romance, and the magic of escaping into a
different world. James Mangold’s The
Wolverine was that kind of surprise.
Repairing the damage done by Gavin Hood’s X-Men Origins: Wolverine, Mangold tells an unexpectedly personal
and intimate tale with style and snap. This time around the most iconic X-Man
of all is somewhat world-weary, wounded, and worn. At the forceful center of
the film is Hugh Jackman, the biggest marvel of Marvel's The Wolverine, who returns for his sixth screen appearance as the
lupine superhero. Letting a
less visible, more vulnerable side show, Logan, a.k.a. the titular hero,
tests his extremes and overcomes his limits, physically as well as emotionally.
The movie
is as packed with feeling as its title character, a mutant with more humanity
than all of the human heroes of this summer’s blockbusters combined. The filmmaker’s foray into the X-Men
franchise is endlessly entertaining, if somewhat existential, dipping into dark
and ponderous psychological territory; Mangold puts his character through all
sorts of physical pain, but the director is also interested in the deeper aches
of the soul.
