Once upon a time, Ant-Man was the Marvel movie to beat. A founding Avenger with less baggage of expectation, Ant-Man allowed the studio increasing danger of collapsing under the titanic weight of their own 'universe-building' a chance to shake things up with something small (ha
), intimate, and quirky. Paired with the eclectic stylistic flair and consummate comedic timing of visionary writer/director Edgar Wright, Ant-Man was primed to become the breath of fresh air in the Marvel Cinematic Universe.
Alas.
Wright's departure from the project, followed by shady, last minute rewrites, and the hiring of Peyton Reed, best known for helming despicably generic attempts at comedy, didn't bode well. But Marvel's impeccable track record and the inspired casting of Paul Rudd suggested there was still Hope (ha ) an enjoyable romp could be salvaged out of the film's prior potential. Indeed, it's hard not to sneer that the film's theme of "second chances," uttered roughly 1800 times by Michael Douglas with all the subtlety of a children's bedtime story, reads as a meta plea for clemency on behalf of the studio. And yet, even with this growing backlog of worrisome evidence against it, none could have predicted the final product to come.
Ant-Man is, not to mince words, an insultingly poor film.
Inexcusably lazy, under-thought, clichéd, soulless the list of adjectives is endless. Purportedly structured around a heist narrative, the miserable excuse for a script slaps together a slew of loathsome narrative crutches (released con coaxed into "one last job", disgraced dad trying to win back custody rights to his daughter, emotionally distant genius forced to confront the demons of his past yawn), glued together with laughably contrived MCU tie-ins (a dire prologue tacked on to remind audiences that Marvel's Agent Carter still exists, an Avengers cameo so embarrassingly out of place I won't dare spoil it here, ugh) in a shamefully textbook example of 'safe studio filmmaking'.
One would imagine that after the rampant success of the eccentric, daring Guardians of the Galaxy Marvel would push the envelope even further into the realm of clever humour and weird levity. Instead, Reed inexplicably stoops to sassy 'comedic relief' side characters that would have felt stale in the 1980s, otherwise leaning on Paul Rudd's indestructibly affable charisma to keep the film afloat. And though Rudd is nearly impossible to dislike, turning on the charm and puppy-dog pathos and mining the abysmal script for laughs like never before, even he can only do so much to save a sinking ship (it's ironic Rudd's Lang makes a Titanic reference ). Running less than two hours and still feeling offensively overlong, Ant-Man plods along at an insomnia-curing pace (Reed may as well have re-titled the film Slug-Man), counterbalancing a stupefying long training montage with terse monologues about morality so repetitive there is a legitimate worry of having entered the simulacrum of Groundhog Day.
The sole consolation: the film's visual effects, while often looking slapdash and rushed, do conjure an ant-sized handful of fascinating imagery. Lang's first shrinking experience into the suddenly desolate wasteland of a bathtub provides a blip of entertainment, and there is brief joy – nay, perhaps even a chuckle or two – to be found in his ant-training escapades (watching him surf through a drainpipe on a skittering carpet of ants is a highlight). Similarly, Lang's accidental descent into the subatomic realm provides a gorgeous feast of Escher- influenced surrealism. But, before you know it, we're back to being pummelled senseless by cliché once again. Sigh.
Speaking of pummelling: despite a surprisingly sound rationalization of the physicality of Ant- Man (small yet compact, "like a bullet"), the film's action sequences are tragically sparse. It's a shame, as the unique size-changing fight choreography offers a few precious where the film momentarily sputters with some life and vigour. Surely a couple of minutes of Michael Douglas' droning could have been shaved off for a few more shots of unorthodox pounding? Ah, but that would require a director with even a skeletal grasp of energy, pace, or vision (ahem). Among the film's immeasurable log of missed opportunities: no Lang entering the human body and attacking from within, and not even a fleeting glimpse of a triumphant Giant-Man transformation (at least one climactic moment provides an ideal setup). And the Wasp? Shamefully, unforgivably absent. All the while, Christophe Beck's musical score bwomps away in the background, the most hackneyed pastiche of heroic musical clichés yet, and there are even a couple of moments where Reed has the gall to attempt to mimic Edgar Wright's trademark kinetic 'swish-pan' editing and cinematography. Rub salt in the gaping wound, why dontcha. The squandered potential on screen is almost too much to bear.
Even the film's generally talented cast is Hopeless (see what I did there? I used the same joke twice. Just like Ant-Man) at providing any respite from the turgid mess surrounding them. Apart from Rudd – and even he starts to seem tired by the end – Michael Douglas snores through the film, his Hank Pym an unmistakably extraneous mentor archetype, while Evangeline Lily continues her Hobbit streak of astoundingly flat 'token action woman' cardboard cutouts. Corey Stoll, saddled with the worst lines the script has to offer (which is saying something), is so embarrassingly cartoonish here it almost overrides his previously impressive work in House of Cards, while poor Michael Peña is forced to constantly mug for increasingly cheap laughs as Lang's fellow ex-con buddy. The worst of the lot: Bobby Canavale's oafish cop/stepdad rival is hilariously out of place, while Judy Greer is given so little screen time as Lang's estranged wife she may as well have played the Invisible Woman.
In conclusion (just to finish beating that dead horse): Edgar Wright once opined that "the only bad films are dull films." Ladies and gentlemen, Ant-Man is a bad film.
-3/10
Alas.
Wright's departure from the project, followed by shady, last minute rewrites, and the hiring of Peyton Reed, best known for helming despicably generic attempts at comedy, didn't bode well. But Marvel's impeccable track record and the inspired casting of Paul Rudd suggested there was still Hope (ha ) an enjoyable romp could be salvaged out of the film's prior potential. Indeed, it's hard not to sneer that the film's theme of "second chances," uttered roughly 1800 times by Michael Douglas with all the subtlety of a children's bedtime story, reads as a meta plea for clemency on behalf of the studio. And yet, even with this growing backlog of worrisome evidence against it, none could have predicted the final product to come.
Ant-Man is, not to mince words, an insultingly poor film.
Inexcusably lazy, under-thought, clichéd, soulless the list of adjectives is endless. Purportedly structured around a heist narrative, the miserable excuse for a script slaps together a slew of loathsome narrative crutches (released con coaxed into "one last job", disgraced dad trying to win back custody rights to his daughter, emotionally distant genius forced to confront the demons of his past yawn), glued together with laughably contrived MCU tie-ins (a dire prologue tacked on to remind audiences that Marvel's Agent Carter still exists, an Avengers cameo so embarrassingly out of place I won't dare spoil it here, ugh) in a shamefully textbook example of 'safe studio filmmaking'.
One would imagine that after the rampant success of the eccentric, daring Guardians of the Galaxy Marvel would push the envelope even further into the realm of clever humour and weird levity. Instead, Reed inexplicably stoops to sassy 'comedic relief' side characters that would have felt stale in the 1980s, otherwise leaning on Paul Rudd's indestructibly affable charisma to keep the film afloat. And though Rudd is nearly impossible to dislike, turning on the charm and puppy-dog pathos and mining the abysmal script for laughs like never before, even he can only do so much to save a sinking ship (it's ironic Rudd's Lang makes a Titanic reference ). Running less than two hours and still feeling offensively overlong, Ant-Man plods along at an insomnia-curing pace (Reed may as well have re-titled the film Slug-Man), counterbalancing a stupefying long training montage with terse monologues about morality so repetitive there is a legitimate worry of having entered the simulacrum of Groundhog Day.
The sole consolation: the film's visual effects, while often looking slapdash and rushed, do conjure an ant-sized handful of fascinating imagery. Lang's first shrinking experience into the suddenly desolate wasteland of a bathtub provides a blip of entertainment, and there is brief joy – nay, perhaps even a chuckle or two – to be found in his ant-training escapades (watching him surf through a drainpipe on a skittering carpet of ants is a highlight). Similarly, Lang's accidental descent into the subatomic realm provides a gorgeous feast of Escher- influenced surrealism. But, before you know it, we're back to being pummelled senseless by cliché once again. Sigh.
Speaking of pummelling: despite a surprisingly sound rationalization of the physicality of Ant- Man (small yet compact, "like a bullet"), the film's action sequences are tragically sparse. It's a shame, as the unique size-changing fight choreography offers a few precious where the film momentarily sputters with some life and vigour. Surely a couple of minutes of Michael Douglas' droning could have been shaved off for a few more shots of unorthodox pounding? Ah, but that would require a director with even a skeletal grasp of energy, pace, or vision (ahem). Among the film's immeasurable log of missed opportunities: no Lang entering the human body and attacking from within, and not even a fleeting glimpse of a triumphant Giant-Man transformation (at least one climactic moment provides an ideal setup). And the Wasp? Shamefully, unforgivably absent. All the while, Christophe Beck's musical score bwomps away in the background, the most hackneyed pastiche of heroic musical clichés yet, and there are even a couple of moments where Reed has the gall to attempt to mimic Edgar Wright's trademark kinetic 'swish-pan' editing and cinematography. Rub salt in the gaping wound, why dontcha. The squandered potential on screen is almost too much to bear.
Even the film's generally talented cast is Hopeless (see what I did there? I used the same joke twice. Just like Ant-Man) at providing any respite from the turgid mess surrounding them. Apart from Rudd – and even he starts to seem tired by the end – Michael Douglas snores through the film, his Hank Pym an unmistakably extraneous mentor archetype, while Evangeline Lily continues her Hobbit streak of astoundingly flat 'token action woman' cardboard cutouts. Corey Stoll, saddled with the worst lines the script has to offer (which is saying something), is so embarrassingly cartoonish here it almost overrides his previously impressive work in House of Cards, while poor Michael Peña is forced to constantly mug for increasingly cheap laughs as Lang's fellow ex-con buddy. The worst of the lot: Bobby Canavale's oafish cop/stepdad rival is hilariously out of place, while Judy Greer is given so little screen time as Lang's estranged wife she may as well have played the Invisible Woman.
In conclusion (just to finish beating that dead horse): Edgar Wright once opined that "the only bad films are dull films." Ladies and gentlemen, Ant-Man is a bad film.
-3/10