I don't know where to start.
I guess the beginning's as good a place as any. Alright. I've been a comic book fan all my life. Literally. I remember being maybe three and having a Superman and Spider-Man themed birthday party at the Abbeville McDonald's. I remember getting a twenty-inch Superman action figure for either that birthday or one during those early years. Giant figure. Cloth cape. Big ol' glow-in-dark boulder of kryptonite. Easily one of the best toys I've ever owned and one I wish I still had. My brother, who's seven years older than me, was a big comic book reader himself. He read a lot of comics, mostly Marvel and DC, and of the two, mostly DC. DC for those who've always wondered stands for "Detective Comics," one of the company's early publications that dealt with crime and detective fiction. Detective Comics became famous when it was the setting for the first appearance of the character who held court in movie theaters last summer: The Batman.
Sorry about that. But I can't help it. My brother Jarrod kept his comics in these little shelves on the headboard of his bed. The shelves had little sliding doors, and he'd carefully lock them away from his little brother, who would very likely damage them. Seeing the way my eight-month old daughter taunts and then viciously murders her mother's magazines when left on the floor, I completely understand. Of course, the thing was, locking those comics away only made them more appealing. My mom knew I wanted to read them, so when my brother was at school or away, she'd let me look at them only if I was careful with them. This is one of those wonderful things that moms do. They find a way to make everybody happy. Jarrod never knew I looked at those comics, and I was able to do so and fall deeply and madly in love with that strange, wonderful world.
My brother eventually grew out of comics. I never did. As the years progressed, comics turned me into a voracious reader. I'd read stacks of books every summer and stacks of comics. My mother's mother, who I was close to as a child, gave me an allowance, but also gave me extra money for comics. I think she realized, along with my mother, father, and uncle, that this was not a bad hobby for me to get into. It wasn't dangerous or very expensive (at the time), and it was actually making me a better reader. I also taught myself how to draw by studying those early comics, which was also a plus to my family.
By the time I was finishing middle school, I had hundreds of comics. I'm not exaggerating. Hundreds. I'd spend between twenty to forty dollars a week on comics. Back then, comics were still between seventy-five cents and a dollar. Not three bucks a pop like they are today. So do the math. By the time I graduated from high school, I had over two thousand comics and had read most of the main titles put out by "The Big Two," Marvel and DC, as well as comics like "Spawn" and "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles," produced by other, smaller companies.
By this point, I was already deeply in love with three characters: Superman, The Batman, and Spider-Man. They are my "holy trinity" of characters to this day. Those favorites right after them are Captain America, Green Lantern, The Flash, Wolverine, Iron Man, and Thor. Honorable mention goes to Ghost Rider, The Fantastic Four, and Wolverine's pals in The X-Men. So when Tim Burton's Batman was released in 1989, I was beyond excited. I had a Batman t-shirt. I had read some movie tie-in comics. I knew more about The Batman than most eighth graders knew about sports and discovering the other sex. I waited in a line of about thirty people at the small Lafitte Cinema in Abbeville. I asked my mom to drop me off for the first feature that hot Friday afternoon. I didn't want anyone with me, because I knew I was going to be in another world. I knew I couldn't be fair to anyone who came with me, not because I wouldn't want to talk to them, but because I wasn't sure I'd be able to talk at all.
Batman was, at the time, amazing. It catapulted me into that comic buying pattern I mentioned earlier. And from then on, I went to every big comic book movie release on my own. Star Wars films also get this treatment. They're events, and the first time I see them, I like to see them alone. My wife knows this, and is thankfully more than happy to let me do my thing. And I've been doing it since 1989. This is hard to explain to folks and to their credit, hard to understand. I can only liken my fervor and passion to that of the sports fan, specifically, LSU sports fans. My best friend, John Listi, is an LSU nut. Last night, I was talking with my friends about how much of a nut I am about all of this stuff and how it's hard for people to get that. And he said, "well, it's like being an LSU fan." And I thought, "Finally, thank God, I have a way to explain this, something to compare it to." Thanks, brother!
So on to Superman Returns. I've been waiting for this one for a long time, as I mentioned in a previous entry. I purchased a ticket about a week in advance via phone. NOTE: Do not do this!!! Instead, go to the box office and buy the damn ticket yourself. I'll explain why later.
I leave home around 8:45 PM and head to The Grand. I arrive only to find that I'm not the geekiest geek in Acadiana. There's already a bloody line waiting to get into the theater! I stand in that line, dressed in navy shorts and a red button down shirt. I give my ticket to the ticket guy and he informs me, "Uh, Screen 14, that's on the other side, sir." My heart falls again. "The other side?" How can this be? This is why you don't order via phone. You can't tell ahead of time where they've put you. Auditorium 14 is no bigger than an auditorium at a small-town theater and smells bad. I sit there for a minute and then say, "No, I don't think I'm going to watch this movie in this theater.
Now, I'd already sat down and removed my red shirt, revealing my Superman Returns S-shield t-shirt. The \S/ is made with hi-density ink, so it's got a raised texture. I ordered the shirt specifically to wear to the first showing. So I walk out of the theater, red shirt hanging on my arm, looking for a manager who can fix this problem. I find one and he graciously informs me that I can switch to Screen One. Ah, Screen One. Where I saw Spider-Man 2, Batman Begins, and Episode III. A girl who works at the theater spies me and says, "Hey, that shirt could double as your cape." Slightly embarrased, I explain that I wore the extra shirt to save my seat in case I have to getup. And that's the truth. I always bring something to mark a seat with. But I did wear a red shirt so as to keep a Superman color theme going. And dammit if I wasn't found out.
As always with The Grand, it was too damned warm inside. I don't understand this and in my opinion, there's just no excuse for it. None. If somehow this gets to the folks at The Grand (who are, by the way, extremely accommodating and very nice), please listen: I understand how you make your money. I know it's not box office. I know concessions sales keep the lights on. I get it. But if you're going to ask me to support you by buying a decent sized popcorn and beverage at over eight bucks total, I think you need to provide me with an ice-cold auditorium. I could forgive this if we were talking about Colorado. But this is Lafayette. And the last five or six times I've gone to your theater, I've been uncomfortable because of heat. Everything else is great.
Alright, so I'm sitting there in that not-so-cool auditorium. I've got a Superman t-shirt on, as do at least a dozen other people. I figured that there'd be more of "my kind" at this "geek preview," but I was surprised by a lot of different types of people. Young and old couples. Teenagers. Some younger kids. And a lot of people my age, who I imagine are drawn to this movie not because of Superman, but because of Christopher Reeve as Superman. Makes sense. Anyway, I'm seated in what was not "the perfect seat," which if you're curious, is the seat on the very top row directly beneath the projection booth. This seat gets the perfect moniker because you're above anyone who might be noisy in any way, and because it affords you a view of the screen that no other seat can. Sadly, I didn't get this seat because I underestimated those nerdier than even me, and because I got a ticket to that smaller auditorium I mentioned.
Anyway, I'm seated and begin the long wait for the movie to begin. As I'm watching a highly-agitating commercial for Coke for the nineteenth time, I hear "Hey Superman!" I ignore this for a few reasons. One, for all I know, there's someone here dressed in a Superman costume. Stranger things have happened. For another, there are a bunch of folks wearing Superman t-shirts, like myself. And finally, I can't believe an adult would be so immature as to shout "Hey Superman!" to get another adult's attention. I wait a moment for the offensive person to move away or die, and then turn to look. It's a guy wearing a shirt three sizes too short, with a head too small to contain a brain of any significance.
He's looking at me, and I give him the look I gave Auditorium 14. He says, "anybody sittin' there?" in a dull sort of way. He's referring to the seats next to me. Glorious. I look at him without responding for a minute and then mumble "No." My personal Lex Luthor for the night enters the row with his girlfriend (destined to become a saint, I'm convinced) and another couple. I start controlled breathing, so as to calm down. By this point, I've lost the high ground of the perfect seat to people who I heard explaining via a way too-loud cell phone conversation that they "decided to come see the Superman movie on a whim." A whim. These people just don't get it. The theater feels like a freakin' greenhouse, and now I've got this guy and his pals sitting next to me.
A half hour later, it's time for the movie to start. Or more accurately, for the trailers to start. Members of The Grand's staff come in and ask for everyone to gesture to any open seats they have, as this showing has sold out. Sold. Out. I'm thrilled, because it means people still care about Superman. I realize then that I'm not going to let my worries about not having the perfect seat or anything else bother me. People are talking and are loud, there's shouting from one row to another, there's loud eating and cell phone beeps, bleeps, and claps.
The trailers begin. The new Spider-Man 3 teaser comes on. Everyone watches with excitement, though not in silence. I begin to worry a little: will they be like this during Superman Returns? Then the weird and not a little disturbing announcement comes up about being quiet in theater, not smoking, and begging us to buy concessions. You know the one, where you fly through a theater that's apparently in the 25th century, where zero g's are part of the concession experience, as popcorn and candy fly around you like tiny, edible satellites? That's the one.
Then the DTS logo comes up, followed by the WB's production logo and the Legendary Pictures production logo.
A brief bit of text comes up, explaining Superman's origin from the last two films and seventy-six years of continuity.
And then, folks, my God...the magic begins.
The auditorium is no longer hot. Everyone has fallen silent. It's like church. Not church when you first get there and everybody's shifting gears from what they were doing at home before getting to church, but during the homily or sermon church, when everyone's almost asleep. Except here, everyone is excited. Waiting. Anticipating.
The most exciting, most thrilling, most ingenious opening credit sequence I've ever seen bursts into life, accompanied by one of film history's most exhilirating and bold musical themes, John William's original Superman theme from the Christopher Reeve films.
And I'm no longer in that auditorium. I'm no longer in The Grand theater. I'm no longer in Lafayette, or on planet Earth.
I'm in the far reaches of space, following the path baby Kal-El's ship took from dead Krypton to living Earth.
More to come in my review...
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