Remind me to take myself less seriously when i drone on and on unironically. I’m referring to my analysis of Watchmen. In scrutinizing the story on its own terms, I may have missed a large chunk of the point.
Here’s Anthony Lane in the New Yorker: “The problem is that [director Zack] Snyder, following [author Alan] Moore, is so insanely aroused by the look of vengeance, and by the stylized application of physical power, that the film ends up twice as fascistic as the forces it wishes to lampoon.”
So, authoritarian? Check. But what about misogynistic?
You want to see the attempted rape of a superwoman, her bright latex costume cast aside and her head banged against the baize of a pool table? The assault is there in Moore’s book, one panel of which homes in on the blood that leaps from her punched mouth, but the pool table is Snyder’s own embroidery.
[N]either author nor director has much grasp of what genuine, unhyped suffering might be like, or what pity should attend it; they are too busy fussing over the fate of the human race—a sure sign of metaphysical vulgarity—to be bothered with lesser plights.
To dwell any longer on why this is gross would be to grant it too much power.