Bunker Buster: A Review of 'Iron Man 2'

There are certain moments in ‘Iron Man 2’, Jon Favreau’s sequel to his own 2008 Blockbuster comic book adaptation, in which the thundering roar of machine gun fire is so loud and so insistent it begins to edge the spectator into a sublime state of disinterest. One wonders why they felt the need to crank the engine of apathy up to such excesses at these times when it seems to hum along just fine without the aid of special effects and boringly disinterested plotting.

Mercifully, these onslaughts come towards the end of the film, although we have previously been asked not merely to suffer through but to judge both sassy and dramatic a fight between two robots set to a remix of Queen’s ‘Another One Bites The Dust’. Up until this descent, there is much to be entertained by. Robert Downey Jr. reprises his narcissistic playboy arms manufacturer, playing Tony Stark like a cross between the young Howard Hughes and a less insufferable Tom Cruise. Favreau directs with commendable looseness, allowing Downey and Sam Rockwell in particular to improvise as though they did not have a $170 million production riding on them (the only drawback: editing together such ad-libbing leads to distractingly dire continuity).

The problems begin to set in around the halfway mark, or perhaps the novelty just wears off. Poisoning himself to an early grave with his own thrill seeking, Stark recklessly commandeers his company’s entry in a Monaco grand prix, but is cut down mid-race by Mickey Rourke’s vengeful Russian physicist. Between Stark’s lithe panic at being challenged and almost bested, Rourke’s monolithic determination, and the unexpectedness of the harbour racetrack setting, the scene comes close to presenting something akin to storytelling.

After this, it all begins to spiral away, Rourke is neutered, the Wider Marvel Universe (TM) rears its unenlightening and one-eyed head, and dramatic tension bleeds away to nought. Don Cheadle’s Lt. Col. Rhodes is an exemplar: moving through scenes like driftwood, he is given little motivation and no character whatsoever, but merely does and says what is required of him by an increasingly desperate script.

During a scene in which the intriguing life-sucking corollary of Stark’s heroism is solved in the laziest fashion possible, it is hard not to be struck by the realisation that this film, and those like it, actively discourage thought. Like Downey’s other franchise grab ‘Sherlock Holmes’, any mystery displayed here is so convolutedly both dispersed and minute that the process of attempting to grasp it is highlighted as futile, even stupid (yes, we all guessed it involved The Map, but the obfuscated digital imprint of an entirely new element?).

While the first ‘Iron Man’ offered an interesting schemata of contemporary terrorism and the dream of a one-man American war machine finishing the job started by the Bush administration, ‘Iron Man 2’ is happy for the job to remain firmly done. Having, in his words, “privatised world peace”, Stark now functions as a human nuclear deterrent, although the implication that his sartorial weaponry keeps any other countries from attacking the United States sounds less like world peace and more like a globalised national dictatorship. Either way, the games that are played and the battles that are fought are between American companies and different factions of the military industrial complex. Vacuously, the finale takes place in the same exhibition space as the film’s opening demonstration of technical superiority by Stark, and both are just displays of meaningless flash and bang, of exorbitant financial expenditure without appreciation for human collateral.

It might be too much to ask for such Summer Entertainment to contain the trace of drama, but given the scale of the production one is certainly entitled to question the lack of precision. Perhaps when those who are today teenagers grow up, and realise their cultural memories are made of cheap, plastic-covered nothing, they will have a creative recession similar – but worse – than that generated by subprime mortgages and asset inflation. Only the quality of the inevitable ‘Iron Man 3’ will give us any clue as to whether it will be a double dip.

Arms and the Entrepreneur: A Review of 'Iron Man'

'I was in an Elton John video? When did this happen?'

It’s a curious comic book adaptation that opens with the abduction of a wealthy American in Afghanistan, centres on a character who is essentially an asshole, and co-stars Gwyneth Paltrow. Iron Man performs all these feats, while ticking every box on the origin-story template that’s been banging around for forty years, and giving Robert Downey Jr. the role, if not of a lifetime, then certainly of the season.

He plays Tony Stark, head of a massive weapons manufacturing company currently hocking its latest product to the US army. He has the ingenuity to build a bunker-busting missile, the spiky energy to set off any party, and the rakish charm to disarm even the most good-looking investigative reporter. In short, he is a man due for a comeuppance – which duly comes when he is forced at gunpoint to assemble a WMD for Arab terrorists. He capitulates, but constructs his own method of escape: a one-man war-machine of wrought iron and flamethrowers, powered by a quasi-hydrogen battery. In doing so, and slaughtering countless gibbering captors, he learns that helping people is better than building things that kill them. Helping white people, that is.

The plot thickens on his return to America, but I shan’t go into that here, as one needs to take all the surprises one can (unless you’re a fan, in which case you already have a fair idea of how the third sequel is going to pan out). There are romantic entanglements with secretaries, predictable double-crosses, and shit-gets-built montages aplenty, the whole thing occurring in a universe which has never experienced The Incredibles, let alone Frank Miller or Alan Moore. It could all be quite wearisome, were it not for the first-rate cast and the manner in which they have been directed.

Jon Favreau, perhaps best known for his starring role in Doug Liman’s indie-comedy Swingers (and here providing a cameo as, very appropriately, Stark’s bodyguard and bag-handler) shows a surprisingly strong hand, and a welcome willingness to allow his cast to improvise and generally piss around. It isn’t Altman, but it does grab your attention. While there might be some to claims that Downey Jr. wheels out the same mannered, drug-spun bundle of ticks in all his recent performances, his Stark is an entertaining mixture of charm, idiocy, and muscle somewhere between Jack Sparrow and Batman. It is a credit to the actor that he makes no effort to alter the essential attitude of the man post-abduction, a move which forces the sceptical among us to question the ethical veracity of those who have been part of his inner circle all along, including the perpetually placid Terrence Howard and the alarmingly not-terrible Paltrow. Then there’s Jeff Bridges, playing the ridiculously titled Obadiah Stane, who – though he is the obligatory grizzled old guy – invests his character with some pathos and psychology, even if his plotline is underdeveloped. (I guess there’s a reason he’s named after the shortest book in the Old Testament.)

In these $100 a barrel times the cyber-dream of flawless man-machine integration cannot be that simple: Stark’s suit is a sleek exhaust-free number which literally runs on the power of his own heart, whereas his nemesis’ bulky Hummer-parody belches exhaust fumes. The latter is a personification of the outdated mechanised armoury of the pre-Cold War period; Iron Man on the other hand is an example of contemporary military tactics, even at one point being mistaken for an UAV. This American playboy – whose father literally invented the Atomic bomb – at one point launches at whim into a middle-eastern war zone, overcomes the villains with his absurdly advanced artillery, then exits as soon as he has brought about peace, leaving the natives to happily sort out the mess. All this happens bloodlessly of course, Favreau showing a marked aversion to killing, always cutting away at the moment the trigger is pulled. Still, considering the fetid morality of films such as Jumper, these sidesteps cannot be entirely condemned.

It is by no means a masterpiece, but in the modern blockbuster environment, when the best James Cameron we can come up with is Michael Bay, it certainly entertains for a couple of cheerful hours, and we can only hope it makes absurdly sculpted goatees 2008’s must have facial accessory.