Deadpool
C'est l'adore.
Superhero films are very much like bouts of crippling menstrual cramp; they come around approximately every month and are very little fun for all concerned. Also, girls don’t like them (superhero films that is, not cramps. But not those either). Or at least that’s what Marvel thinks, as revealed by last-month’s revelation that they removed the female villain from Iron Man 3 due exclusively to concerns over “merchandising revenue”. This depressing example of contemptuous genderism has done little to change my long-held opinion that superhero films have become creative voids; identikit action romps peppered with just enough obscure references and inside jokes to convince comic book fans that they’re in an exclusive little club of knowing cinemagoers, when in fact they’re bloated man-babies being sold plastic toys by Scarlet Johansson’s arse.
Yeah, I was pretty much done with superhero films. Then I met Deadpool, and I think I’m in love.
How could I not fall for Ryan Reynolds’ scrotum-faced, meta mercenary; he’s exciting, he’s hilarious, he’s adventurous in bed, and when he speaks directly to me, I feel like I’m the only person in the room. Most importantly, he shares my contempt for superhero films. And he lets me watch him shag his hot girlfriend.
I’m even willing to forgive his flaws; his arc is predictable, his love interest is a hoary/whorey cliché, and he makes too many bum-jokes, but I think those things are adorable - they may even be intentional.
For now, though, it’s difficult to say whether Deadpool has restored my faith in superhero-film-kind, or spoiled me for all other superhero films. C'est l'adore.
