Hancock is better than feeling up a prostitute
Since the debut of the Twenty-First Century (fuck you, pre-2000), cinema screens have been awash with a continuous barrage of superhero flicks. For much of the decade’s early years, disasters such as The Incredible Hulk, Catwoman, and Daredevil (which, let’s be honest, aren’t exactly the most thrilling subject matter to begin with) threatened to prematurely ejaculate the superhero genre the way of Westerns. Even Spider-Man, with its terrific dance numbers and mega box office receipts, did little to reinvigorate a dying genre. Then a tidal wave of ass-kicking superheroes arrived from Planet X coated with Substance F and began kicking film ass up and down the Sunset Strip . A Batman reboot showed critics, audiences, and studio executives alike that deep character development and visual effects have a real place in contemporary film over digital extravaganzas and tight leather (real men can’t fit man-sized packages into mediocrity-sized places). With 2008’s Iron Man and Hulk genesis, Marvel snapped all ten toes off in the buttholes of the superhero-craving universe. But what about a superhero picture that’s not linked to any gazillion-year-old comic strip which challenged Archie for Sunday funny page space in 1893? Well Hancock‘s six hundred million return confirms that it is absolutely okay to not have any foundation in established lore; if it’s a good superhero film, sixty million dumbasses will drop ten bucks to see Will Smith break shit for ninety minutes.
I definitely would not confuse Hancock for Peter Parker or Bruce Wayne. In the film’s first ten minutes you’ll see the “pro”tagonist spread eagle on a bench with a case of whiskey, be called an asshole by a six-year-old, and impale a white SUV on a comm antenna. As V for Vendetta accomplished in 2005, Hancock successfully shifts the always-positive, continually-the-Head On-of-villain-stoppers perspective of the hero to a brand new angle, one which isn’t traditionally exposed. Will Smith’s character is not a paladin to the people of Los Angeles: to watch the common Ted Nathan U. Citizen despise the hero has much as Andrew Nixon Ingrid Gregory A. Villain is truly a novel spectacle. With every successful thwarting of a robbery or getaway (or beached whale versus sailboat), Hancock causes millions in damage or introduces a new, less awesome complication.
That is, until Hancock rescues Jason Bateman’s character (Ray Embrey) from an imminent besandwiching at the massive steel bumper of a swiftly-moving freight train and Ray unleashes the full power of his PR-centred right brain. Ray proposes that Hancock vastly alter public perception of his assholery into that of a saviour -a true and genuine superhero which crowds will lovingly cheer for and ultimately rely on. This process is the front cover of Hancock, showing that he has the ablity to embrace his inner immortal and become what the [otherwise-helpless] people of Los Angeles require to block the ever-present danger of Hollywood villainy. The juicy steak of Hancock is revealed by Charlize Theron (the worst name a parent could bestow upon a child -although she probably looked less like a shiny-nickel hooker as a fresh baby), another superhero in disguise who divulges that throughout human history, superheroes have existed under the guise of “angels” or “gods” as the protectors of man. Alongside immortality, these heroes were built in pairs which is ultimately their fundamental flaw -and greatest gift to one another.
Hancock and director Peter Berg proudly give extensive digital effects a tap on the shoulder and whisper “fuck off,” giving way to a Christopher Nolan brand of reality over CG illusion. Watching the generous helping of featurettes gives a new perspective on how the days of 2003’s Hulk have passed and an emphasis on forcing previously-hands-off actors to get dirty with stunts and concrete actuality has arrived. While Hancock does feature a number of dick-hardening effect sequences, the amount of wire work put into each shot to create an intense feeling of satisfaction. Only one scene felt overly-Paris Hilton, and that was the duel carried out between Hancock and Theron’s character where an over-abundance of debris and weather effects (possibly the basis of the inevitable Hancock 2?) impedes any grounding in corporeality. Otherwise, expect a visual orgasm from outset to conclusion (and a bit during credit roll).
This inspiring and gripping tale of an “urban hero” is in the vein of The Dark Knight; it’s gritty, it’s visceral, it’s something fresh and exciting. Hancock begins the film as a real antihero, although not in the spirit of established Hollywood antiheroes. He is not a figure who has yet to realise his powers or some dumbshit teenager yet to be shat upon by nuclear waste: Hancock is, plain and simple, an asshole. Like Batman Begins or Iron Man, contumacious superheroes like Hancock will keep the genre alive for decades to come. Hopefully we will never be forced to witness an actress don a dominatrix outfit and hop around rooftops pretending she’s some kind of cat-woman hybrid ever again. Let Hancock‘s incredibly-unique and diverse offering be a lesson to all future superhero films (this is directed at you, Big Name Hollywood director) and give us more quality superass kicking. Please, and thank you.
Conclusion: One scene of convict’s head versus convict’s anal cavity which was hilarious (out of one)