Video review: "Iron Man 2"

"Iron Man 2" was still fun, but just didn't have the polish of the 2008 summer hit. With only two years between films, the sequel was bound to feel slapdash and hurried-up.

Robert Downey Jr. returns as Tony Stark, brilliant billionaire owner of a multi-national corporation. Having outed himself as the man behind the Iron Man mask, Stark has been living it up, forcing evildoers into hiding and giving the high hat to congressional committees to boot.

But things are worrisome behind the glitzy veneer: The gizmo in Stark's chest that powers the super-suit and keeps his damaged heart pumping is slowly poisoning him. And Ivan Vanko, son of an old business partner of Stark's daddy, wants revenge for perceived injustices. Vanko builds his own super-suit complete with freaky power-whips, which he uses to nearly kill Stark.

Other players emerge from the periphery.

Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson) is still talking about putting a team of super-heroes together. He plants Scarlett Johansson as Stark's secretary, whose skills go beyond Excel spreadsheets. Right-hand woman Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow) still yearns for Stark's affections, and old buddy James Rhodes (Don Cheadle) is raring to become his super-suited sidekick.

Justin Hammer (Sam Rockwell) is some sort of Steve Jobs-meets-war profiteer competitor of Stark's who soon partners up with Vanko.

Watching "Iron Man 2" feels obligatory, like getting off a roller-coaster and climbing right back on again: Now that you know where the loops and drops are, it's not quite as thrilling.

The film is available in a two-disc DVD set, or a Blu-ray/DVD combo pack. Extras are good on DVD, moving to fabulous with the combo.

The DVD includes a digital copy -- all too rare these days; usually studios reserve that for the Blu-ray. There's a feature-length commentary by director Jon Favreau, four deleted scenes, two making-of featurettes, and a music video.
The Blu-ray combo has all that, and tons more.

The first disc includes the "S.H.I.E.L.D. Data Vault" -- an interactive pop-up feature with behind-the-scenes goodies. There's also previsualization and animatics of the special effects.

Disc two includes an extensive making-of documentary, four more deleted scenes, four more featurettes, and a gallery of concept art.

Movie: 2.5 stars out of four
Extras: 3.5 stars

Review: "Iron Man 2"

This sequel was hyped as the dark-and-dreary Iron Man in which Tony Stark, having conquered the world in a red-and-gold super-suit, descends into the depths of inner turmoil.

Turns out it's more a milk chocolate coating of darkness. Stark's problems magically disappear about halfway through at the touch of a button. Bing! Oh well, this ain't Hamlet.

I mostly liked "Iron Man 2," but after the pure adrenaline kick of the first movie -- coupled with Robert Downey Jr.'s affable rake of a protagonist -- any follow-up was bound to be a comedown.

For those not up to speed: Brilliant billionaire/playboy Stark invented the Iron Man suit to escape from terrorists, and decided he liked the thrill. Rather than deal with the whole cumbersome alter-ego thing, Stark outed himself as a super-hero to all the world.

Fast forward six months, and tranquility has broken out all over the globe -- mostly because everyone's afraid to tangle with the golden boy. Stark haughtily refuses the government's attempt to appropriate his technology.

"I have successfully privatized world peace!" he declares at a freewheeling congressional hearing that even Joe "BFD" Biden might find a tad informal.

One guy who isn't thrilled is Ivan Vanko -- played by Mickey Rourke, chewing a heavy Cyrillic accent while looking decidedly un-Russian in long dreadlocks and gold teeth. Vanko's daddy co-created the energy technology behind the Iron Man suit along with Stark's pap, and isn't happy about getting kicked to the curb.

So Vanko fixes up his own power suit complete with energy whips, which he uses to nearly kill Stark at a grand prix in which he's driving.

(For comic book geeks, Rourke's character appears to be an amalgamation of the Crimson Dynamo and Blacklash villains.)

Vanko is defeated, but isn't down for long with the help of Justin Hammer (Sam Rockwell), a business competitor of Stark's who wants the top spot on the military-industrial complex pyramid.

Gwyneth Paltrow returns as Pepper Potts, Stark's right-hand woman and wannabe love interest, and Don Cheadle takes over (from Terrence Howard) the role of James Rhodes, Stark's best friend and liaison to the military.

New on the scene is Scarlett Johansson as Natalie Rushman, the mysterious new assistant at Stark Industries, who busts out a few nifty moves you couldn't draw up on a legal pad.

One-eyed Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson), who had a brief cameo at the end of the first flick, turns up again, still murmuring about putting together a team. Based on the speed at which Fury is gathering recruits, I can only imagine how long the clubhouse will take to build.

Director Jon Favreau has a good vibe for this material, somewhere between fanboy fetish for comic lore and recognizing the need to move the story along. With just two years between films, screenwriter Justin Theroux had to improvise on the fly, and as a result the plot often jumps from Point A to Point D without concerning itself much with B or C.

For example, the Stark-Rhodes relationship gets lost in the shuffle of finding some way to cram Rhodey into a modified version of the super-suit -- thus becoming War Machine, Iron Man's sidekick. It's hard to buy that Stark's oldest buddy, having stuck his neck out for him innumerable times, would acquiesce without a peep when his military bosses conspire with Hammer.

It's all a set-up, of course, for a showdown between the Iron Men and Vanko.

This duplication of suits summons a ponderable for the super-hero genre: What happens when super-powers reside not in the person but something they wear, which can be stolen or become obsolete? Stark himself reasons he's got a window of a few years to reign as top badass before the technological gap between his gear and everybody else's closes.

That's the problem with hardware, and movies that rely on it: What's cool today is scrap tomorrow.

2.5 stars out of four

How are the Oscar losers doing?

It's been more than a week now since the Oscars were handed out, and my mind turns to those who left the Academy hall empty-handed.

The winners get to make those gushing speeches in front of a billion people, and have their pictures taken holding the little gold statue, and get feted and congratulated until the sun comes up. But what do the losers do? I've always wondered about their state of mind. Everyone repeats the cliche of "It's an honor just to be nominated," but of course they really wanted to win. Even Richard Jenkins and Melissa Leo, stars of tiny little indie movies who had zero chance of prevailing, must have entertained scenarios in their head of walking briskly up to the podium and getting handed an Oscar.

So how must it feel for the Mickey Rourkes and Meryl Streeps and Viola Davises, who had legitimate shots at winning? Rourke in particular was quite vocal about how much he'd like to win, and what it would mean for his career. He was riding a magical wave of redemption, a fairy tale story that isn't complete unless he gets to take the prince home with him (a little gold-plated one).

I don't have a very good point of reference to compare to. I've won my share of journalism prizes, and been honored to do so. But I'll admit that the arbitrary nature of the process is confounding. I once had a story win the top award in the regional SPJ (Society of Professional Journalists) contest covering all of the Southern states, but failed to win anything in the same category in the state SPJ contest. And I'll admit that occasionally I've won an award for stuff I did not feel constituted my best work.

So to all those who are sitting empty-handed and empty-hearted, buck up. There's always next year.

Review: "The Wrestler"

Mickey Rourke has come a long way – mostly in the wrong direction.

Twenty-five years ago, it seemed like he was headed for the very top echelon of leading male actors. Instead, he made a bunch of forgettable movies, flirted with a boxing career, and earned the sort of reputation around Hollywood that causes phones to stop ringing.

In “The Wrestler,” his character Randy “The Ram” Robinson finds himself in much the same career straits. A top wrestling star of the ‘80s, he’s so strapped for cash that he’s been locked out of his single-wide in a crummy New Jersey trailer park. He sleeps in an ancient rusted-out van, and his family won’t speak to him. He’s still working, if you can call throwing a few body slams in a VFW hall in front of a couple dozen aging fans a career.

Why do Randy, and Mickey, keep doing what they’re doing, long past their prime and for a diminishing amount of appreciation? Because they’re good at it, because they enjoy the thrill of pleasing an audience, and because despite all the pain it brings them, it’s all they know how to do.

Rourke is nearly unrecognizable as The Ram. Part of it is the road the actor has taken – his face has been repeatedly altered by plastic surgery (though Rourke has denied this) to the point of becoming an indistinct lump of fleshy scars. The other changes are intentional for the role: his body buffed and tanned into a cartoonish caricature of manhood, a waist-length braid of bleached-out hair cascading down his back.

It’s the sort of look that grabs attention in the ring, but isn’t very practical on your day job working behind the deli counter at a grocery store. The rest of Randy’s time is spent hanging out at the local strip club, talking to a stripper named Cassidy (Marissa Tomei) whom he’s sweet on. Cassidy puts him off none too gently, failing to see that the has-been wrestler is a harbinger of her own predicament.

Randy’s attempts to reconcile with his estranged daughter (Evan Rachel Wood) are ham-handed but earnest, buying her second-hand clothes and hanging out on her doorstep like a wayward puppy.

Wrestling is a fake sport, but the key to the movie’s success is that director Darren Aronofsky and screenwriter Robert D. Siegel treat it respectfully. To them, it’s just another profession, one framed by ridiculous theatrics, yes, but with its own codes and rules. These men in their spandex have their own sense of honor.

Witness the way the performers confer before their staged bouts, laying out their physical weaknesses and preferred moves. When another older wrestler suggests using a staple gun and barbed wire during their act, Randy doesn’t blanche. When they return, the ring canvas now soaked in their blood, the younger wrestlers in the locker room cheer. In this community, flesh torn in the pursuit of entertainment is the ultimate badge of professionalism.

Even when Randy’s health fails and the doctors tell him to give up wrestling, he can’t stay out long. Despite the blood and the scars, Randy knows that “the only time I get hurt is out there,” outside the ring.

Good thing that Mickey Rourke decided to go to the mat and risk getting knocked around again. “The Wrestler” is more than a comeback; it’s an actor’s redemption.

3.5 stars out of four