Steel (Johnson 1997)

I did not plan this. I really did not. After reviewing the 1997 comic book failure Spawn (ok, after using the film as an excuse to talk about Roger Ebert and his critical practice), I had not planned to review another of the three bad comic book film from the same year.

Yet, here I am reviewing Steel (Johnson 1997), perhaps the most forgotten about film ever based on a superhero comic. Based on the DC comic book character created by Louise Simonson and Jon Bogdanove in the aftermath of Superman’s “death” in the early 1990s, Steel was a last ditch attempt to try and launch basketball superstar Shaquille O’Neal’s acting “career.” The end result was dumped into theatres in August of 1997, and I was one of the few people to actually pay to see the film in a theatre (it was a birthday gift to my younger brother who was a fan of the character, before you ask). It was out of theatres about a week later and on video not too long after that, where it was promptly forgotten. Deservedly so.

Except, there is a historical value to Steel, though we need to look back a decade or two previous to the film, and to the medium of television. In the late 1970s and into the 1980s, a surprising number of comic book superheroes made their way onto television either in TV movies or full fledged television series. These programs, however, were often generic action series and/or crime shows that treated the concept of the superhero as little more than gimmick to liven up an otherwise tried format. The villains were common criminals rather than super villains, the actual moments of super heroics were limited in scale, usually being saved for the final act, and, like most American television of the time, the plotting was episodic and repetitive. Most of these attempts were terrible, such as the live action Spider-Man series and the horrendous Captain America TV movie starring Reb Brown. Often, the very best of these shows were not based on actual comics, such as the cheesy-but-charming Greatest American Hero.

The best known and arguably best of these programs was The Incredible Hulk series starring Billy Bixby and Lou Ferrigno. Taking the basic concept of the comic, that of a scientist who in an accident gains the ability to turn into a raging green beast when he becomes angry, the series combined it with the framework of the successful television series The Fugitive, with David Banner (Bixby) on the run, looking for a cure and helping the people he meets along the way, often assisted and/or hindered by his monstrous alter ego (Ferrigno). The series was goofy and formula driven, but Bixby made (and still makes) for a compelling lead, and the core concept was strong enough for the series to be engaging on a weekly basis.

The man behind bringing The Incredible Hulk to television, along with The Bionic Woman, was Kenneth Johnson, who also wrote and directed the original V mini-series in 1983, and directed the 1988 film Short Circuit 2. Johnson is also the writer and director of Steel, and to the production he brings pretty much the exact same approach to the film as he did to The Incredible Hulk. As such, Steel’s creative and financial failings are take on a symbolic dimension, providing late close to an era of comic book superheroes on film and television, an era in which filmmakers actively tried and suppress what superheroes are in an attempt to make them more “palatable” to mainstream audiences.

The story of Steel is that of John Henry Irons (O’Neal), a military weapons designer who resigns after his latest weapon cripples his friend and colleague Susan Sparks (Annabeth Gish, The X-Files) in a demonstration mishandled by weapon co-designer Burke (Judd Nelson, The Breakfast Club). Returning home, Irons is shocked to find his weapons are now in the hands of gang members, thanks to Burke. When the military decides not to intervene, Irons decides to take matters into his own hands. Reuniting with Sparks and teaming with a wise old junkyard owner (Richard Roundtree of Shaft fame), Irons builds himself a suit of armour and takes to the streets as Steel.

From start to finish, Steel is little more than a late 1980s/early 1990s TV movie that somehow found its way into cinemas, written and shot in the most perfunctory manner possible by Johnson. It is a film peopled by caricatures and stereotypes instead of characters, in a tale that is not engaging either emotionally or intellectually. It is a passionless project where almost everyone involved are working only to collect their cheques, and the lack of care shows in every single frame.

Were the film merely bad on that level, it would simply be forgettable. What makes Steel particularly awfully is just how much contempt for the intelligence of the audience is visible on screen, particularly towards its supposed target audience: children. Steel is a “family” film of the worst kind, preaching a clichéd message of believing in ones self and the value of hard work in the most condescending manner possible. Characters frequently stand about and make speeches that spell out the morals of the film, enough so that by the time Roundtree makes a comment at the end of the film about what one can do when they “really put their mind to it,” I was ready to put on Crank 2 in order to see something entirely amoral. Worse, the film frequently draws in the most superficial manner possible on then popular youth culture, just so it can condemn it in an idiotic fashion. For example, Burke’s post military weapons development is financed by a videogame CEO, if you can believe it, while a child character finds himself in danger because he takes what he believes to be a legitimate job at the same company.

(Note to filmmakers who are determined to make message films for children: it is unlikely kids will buy into your message when you are constantly telling them how bad their culture is. Please keep in mind.)

However, as much contempt as the film might have towards its youthful target audience, it is nothing compared to the contempt the film shows towards the superhero genre. While Johnson’s previous effort The Incredible Hulk may not have held much interest in grand scale science fiction and fantasy, it took the concept of the Hulk seriously, never asking the audience to laugh at the premise. As bad as the Spider-Man television series was, even it never actively sought to have the audience laugh at the very idea of Spider-Man. And while The Greatest American Hero might have been a piece of light comedy action television, its humour was born out of a love of superheroes. The series knew superheroes could be ridiculous, but damn it, they were still a ton of fun.

No such love or respect exists in Steel. At the best of times, the film is merely uninterested in the superhero concept, never bothering to make John Henry Irons in his superhero outings impressive or dignified. In fact, Irons spends most of his time being beaten badly or getting by on sheer luck over the course of the film. Even his “support” team proves to be more effective at fighting crime than Irons ever is during the course of the film. The only effort put in to make Irons seem imposing is in the way Johnson and director of photography Mark Irwin try to emphasize how tall their star is.

Which brings us to Shaquille O’Neal. To be fair to O’Neal, he is clearly trying with all his heart to give a good performance, but the man simply is not an actor. Irons is supposedly a great weapons designer, soldier, and a decent man. Of these, O’Neal is only able to pull of the decency of Irons, never managing to project the intelligence or disciplined mind that we could reasonably expect of a solider or someone who is scientifically inclined. Worse, Irons is motivated by an anger at his work being misappropriated, but O’Neal’s attempts at acting angered and outraged are limited to him barely raising his voice.

The unimpressive nature of the title character is highlighted all the more by his equally unimpressive opponent in the form of Judd Nelson’s Burke. A standard issue villain who merely wants power, casting Nelson as Burke is the biggest piece of miscasting in the film, even more so than O’Neal. While Nelson is a solid actor, there is nothing particularly threatening about him, and certainly nothing to indicate a criminal mastermind. His performance turns Burke into little more than a weasel-like midlevel thug, which makes Irons look all the more pathetic when Burke seemingly defeats him at every turn.

Given how poor a hero Irons is thanks to Johnson’s failings, the moments of unfunny humour in the film fail to be gentle ribbings on the character, and function more as an all out assault on the concept of superheroes. Were the film an intelligent deconstruction and/or comedy of superheroes, I might have been willing to go along with this total attack on superhero fiction. Instead, Johnson seems to be trying to shame fans of the genre and laugh at them, repeatedly yelling at them through Steel “Really? This is what you are a fan of?” Johnson only succeeds in revealing his misconceptions and misunderstanding of the genre, as well as its fans.

The thing about this is that in tearing down superheroes and heroics, Johnson is pretty much undermining his own supposed message at the heart of Steel. It is a film ostensibly about what can be done with determination and hard work, but the truth of the matter is that the film is about a man who dreams big and fails, made by a man who dreams small and fails. As such, Steel is an oddly cynical work for a family film, peddling messages that its own filmmaker does not even seem to believe in, in a genre that he admits to not even liking. As bad as Spawn is, it at least seems to be made by people who enjoy working in the genre, and were trying their best to make their film work even as it failed.

Of course, having now established that Steel is worse than Spawn, it would only be logical to see where the third terrible comic book film of 1997 ranks with these two. So come back soon as I tackle the notorious, and perhaps most hated film in all of comic book fandom, Batman and Robin (Schumacher 1997).

Spawn (Dippé 1997)

(NOTE: I will admit right now that this is less a review of the film Spawn and more or a discussion of Roger Ebert and his critical practice. Please keep in mind while reading)

Normally, I would not bother to ask my readers to read another critic’s review before reading my own (seeing as how most critics are better than myself). However, when the critic I am guiding you to is A) Roger Ebert, and B) he has written this review of Mark A.Z. Dippé’s 1997 film Spawn, I feel compelled to ask you all to read the work before launching into my own.

Now, allow me to be clear: I love Roger Ebert. He and Gene Siskel were among the first critics I ever bothered following, and I continue to do so in the case of Ebert. I respect his work without always agreeing with it, and even when I do disagree, he usually offers something to think about. Despite this respect however, there are two Roger Eberts that one might end up reading with any given review. The first, and most common, is the intelligent, well learned film scholar who can discuss and dissect a film with the best of them.

The other Ebert is the one who wrote the embarrassingly bad Spawn review I just asked you to read.

The review is not embarrassing because Roger Ebert liked the film: as bad as the film is, I have no beef with anyone enjoying it. Heck, I think the film so bad as to be brilliantly awful entertainment, what with Martin Sheen going off the deep end of “ham” with his performance, the bizarre turn from John Leguizamo, and Nicol Williamson ending his film career in the worst possible manner. No, what is embarrassing is the pains Ebert goes to try and justify his three and a half star review of the film, and his attempts to try and sound as if he has a working knowledge of the comic book medium. The review rings hollow, and highlights one of Ebert's downfalls in his critical practice.

Just take the first paragraph of Ebert’s review, that “Spawn is best seen as an experimental art film…[w]hat we have here are creators in several different areas doing their best to push the envelope. The subject is simply an excuse for their art--just as it always is with serious artists.” Putting aside the absurd notion that “serious artists” have little use for their subjects beyond using them as a pretext, Ebert basically asks the reader/potential viewer of Spawn to simply turn off their brain and admire the “pretty pictures.” And while I normally do not agree with such requests, I can at least respect the idea of someone admitting to doing so. They are at least being honest.

However, being Roger Ebert, respectable film critic 95% of the time, a request to "shut off your brain" would be, to say the least, odd. Or rather, odd to the audience he feels he is writing to. Hence, we get his dressed up version of the "turn off your brain" request, with reference to considering the film as an art film and to focus on the daring do of the special effects artists, who have apparently crafted a visual world that is, and I quote, "unforgettable."

Ok, fine, let us follow Ebert down this path for a moment and ignore everything except the visual effects, which includs computer animation, makeup, etc. Are they as boundary pushing as he claims? Is this world the filmmakers have created on the level of Metropolis and Blade Runner as he states? There is a simple answer to this:

No.

This is not a “no” in the context of the fourteen years of effects work that have come since the film came out. This is a “no” that comes out of an awareness of what was capable at the time. This is a “no” that comes from a deep love of real special effects development, witnessed not only in Metropolis and Blade Runner as Ebert mentions, but from the following films that predate Spawn: Le Voyage Dans la Lune (1902); King Kong (1933); Citizen Kane (1941); The Wolfman (1941); The Beast from 20, 000 Fathoms (1953); 2001 - A Space Odyssey (1968); Star Wars (1977); Superman: The Movie (1978); An American Werewolf in London (1981); Tron (1982); The Thing (1982); The Dark Crystal (1982); The Terminator (1984); Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988); The Abyss (1989); Terminator 2 - Judgement Day (1991); and Jurassic Park (1992). This is a “no” on behalf of Georges Méliès, Linwood G. Dunn, Ray Harryhausen, Douglas Trumbull, John Dykstra, Stan Winston, Tom Savini, Rob Bottin, Greg Nicotero, Robert Kurtzman, Jim Henson, and Rick Barker, among others, who I would not blame for feeling insulted by the suggestion that Spawn’s effects work are anywhere near their achievements, or builds upon them.

Not only is Spawn not a boundary pushing film in terms of special effects, the quality of its special effects are a massive step back from what was achievable at the time. While the design of the Spawn makeup in the film is fine (not great: fine), the minute the film decides to use digitally created effects, which is often, the whole film goes to hell (no pun intended). Take a look at the following captures from the film.

Now, remember in his review of the film, Ebert compared these images of hell to the work of Hieronymous Bosch, who painted in the late 1400s. Below is an example of Bosch’s work.

Does anything in the images from Spawn seem remotely worthy of Bosch’s work? The visions of hell in Spawn look about the quality of a Full Motion Video Game (FMVs) cut scene from the same era, which were often made with vastly less money and resources than available to the filmmakers of Spawn. Granted, the playback of such FMVs were in low resolution, but that was because of the computer limitations of the time.

Allow that to sink in for a moment folks: the special effects "wonders" that Ebert seems to love are on part with those in low resolution video game footage of the 1995-1999 era.

Of course, maybe Ebert was referring to the morphing effects in the film. The thing is, even if these were what Ebert was impressed by, Spawn A) did not pioneer the effect, as it appeared at least two years previous in the slightly-better-than-Spawn film Mortal Kombat (1995) (and yes, I am well aware that I am saying a Paul W.S. Anderson film is better than Spawn), and B) Mortal Kombat did these morphing effects far better, as did the 1996 Doctor Who TV movie. And even the television series Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.

But I digress. The key point here is that in no way, shape or form can Spawn be considered for the value of its special effects as Ebert points towards, let alone be mentioned in the same breath as films that legitimately pushed forth the development of special effects. This bizarre-at-best attempt at giving a sense of “legitimacy” to his enjoyment of the film is the kind of deranged statement that would have killed the authority of any lesser critic. In the case of Ebert, this failed attempt at trying to give Spawn a historical and cinematic significance comes across as little more than an expression of class anxiety and vanity: he enjoyed a film he views as being trash, and therefore must justify it both to himself and his envisioned readership. This class bias becomes all the more apparent in the manner Ebert appraises the film's narrative, and what it tells us about how he envisions the comic book medium and its readers/creators.

Certainly, there is not much of value in the storyline of Spawn, and the film suffers from the same problem the comics of the character suffer from (at least the ones I read from early in the run): good ideas with no idea what to do with them. The film merely suffers from the added problem of following the same, lame ABC plotting used by every writer who has misread Joseph Campbell's work as a rule book for writing, and the film never bothers to delve into the psychology of its protagonist Al Simmons (Michael Jai White) the "spawn" of the title. Characters make idiotic decisions because the plot tells them to, and tries to get by on the assumed ignorance of the (1997) audience on several topics. For example, you would think that a top CIA agent might realize that destroying a computer monitor will do nothing to stop information from being sent over the Internet. Not in the universe of Spawn.

Given this shoddy writing, one would be able to forgive Ebert for being dismissive of the film's narrative. Indeed, his criticism that the story is rather a sentimental piece of work is completely correct. The problem though is that Ebert assumes that not only is the quality of storytelling in Spawn is the same quality of storytelling in comics, but that this quality is what comic book readers crave and writers strive for. What else can be taken away from such statements as " in comic books, and movies spawned by comic books...[w]hat matters is style, tone, and creative energy"?

The entire manner in which Ebert treats comic book creators, readers and the medium in general is filled with contempt, and his review Spawn is this contempt written loud, and in near complete ignorance of the medium, its history, and its capabilities. Which again, would be fine if he would admit as much. Instead, we get to witness Roger Ebert's laughable at best attempts at trying to sound as if he is some authority on the comic book medium ("origination story"? Please stop trying to class up our terminology) to his assumed audience: the "literate" types who do not read comic books. For Ebert, the comic book reader and writer is some alien life form, caught up in their own little world in which “real” art and “real” writers do not come into, and hence will not read his reviews. Again, I ask how is one to take a condescending statement such as "I am sure there will be some who get involved at the plot level..."? We know who you are talking about Roger. Or rather, who you think you are talking about

Yes, the comic book reader and writer are strange illiterate aliens to Mr. Ebert. Never mind the existence of Alan Moore, who’s philosophical ponderings were what interested Ebert so much in Watchmen (2009). Or J. Michael Straczynski, a long time writer of comics and animated television who also writes films such as Changeling (2008). Or Neil Gaiman, one of the greatest living fantasy writers working today across pretty much all media, whose defining work might just be his epic Sandman series. No, these aliens known as comic book fans and writers care not for narrative, but merely “style, tone, and creative energy.”

Bullshit.

When you get right down to it, Ebert's review of Spawn is little more than the worst of Ebert's critical practices rolled into one review: written in ignorance, utilizing assumption and stereotypes over facts, and trying too hard to either justify his enjoyment of the film to either his assumed readership, or to himself. Probably both. It is a review that tries too hard, and had Ebert simply admitted to liking the film rather than reaching for flimsy reasons to justify that love, no one would have really cared.

There is no shame Mr. Ebert in admitting you loved a trashy movie, be it ironically or seriously.

There is no shame in your loving Spawn.