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Spiderman 2
(2004)
Dir: Sam Raimi
I saw this movie with my lady on the fourth of July. We got all starts and stripes by devouring pot cookies during the previews. I usually forget that I’ve eaten grassfood by the time it kicks in, so it totally twisted my nipples about twenty minutes into the movie. Alfred Molina’s, Dr. Otto Octavius, was demonstrating the four mechanical arms he designed that fuse to his spinal chord, allowing him to handle searing hot protons. It was a little corny, but it tripped me the fuck out. After his fusion experiment goes haywire, the arms end up fused to him, and via their artificial intelligence start controlling his brain. The newly evil Dr. Ock becomes obsessed with getting his experiment right. Naturally, Spiderman (Tobey Maguire) ends up having to protect New York City from this doomed fusion project. But he’s reluctant to do so. He’s tired of his alter-ego marring his academic endeavors and shitting up his social life. Because he’s preoccupied with crime-fighting, his true love, Mary Jane (Rastafari) Watson (ever-the-apple-core-doll, Kirsten Dunst), is going to marry a fucking astronaut. His best friend Harry Osborn (a solid oak James Franco) wants to avenge his father’s death by killing Spiderman. And Aunt May is going to lose her house to the bank. Plus, he loses his pizza delivery job and is failing physics. Spiderman’s life sucks. Being a broke, stoned movie critic seems awfully lustrous by comparison. But I would totally give up my sterling career to be able to shoot gooey, silk ropes out of my wrists. To swing abound like some urban Tarzan. My girlfriend would be pissed and jealous at first, but I’d take her for unlimited free rides, and she’d cool down eventually. I can’t say, at this point in my life, that I’d be out fighting crimes with my powers. I know Uncle Ben, “with great power, comes great responsibility.” But with great power also comes the ability to steal beer from my bourgeoisie neighbors’ backyard barbeques. I’d be more like a substance indulgent Robin Hood. There’s your comic. I don’t think I’d be in it for the spandex suit. Sweatpants, a t-shirt and some pantyhose over my head would suffice. I’d look like a high flying crack-head. Swinging from lamppost to lamppost through some of Chicago’s WASPiest hoods, snatching six-pack after six-pack of India pale ale. I’d share with the bums and build a secret army. We’d hang out in alleyways and drink beer. Maybe we’d play handball, too. Although it would be awfully tempting for me to cheat. Fuck it, we’d be a super-chill army. Lackadaisically, we’d pepper the city with halfway-decent deeds. The bums would wash windows, and fix dumpster lids, and I’d get stray lawn darts out of trees. Are you reading this Stan Lee?
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