Spiderman 3

This third outing for America’s favorite web-slinging hero is a movie of moments—some funny, some cheesy, some cool, and some just plain dumb. It’s a goofy grab-bag seemingly designed by studio executives who are maddeningly intent on bowing to the demands of the comic book’s fan base. This is a major letdown, considering the first Spiderman was terrific popcorn entertainment, and Spiderman 2 soared to the ranks of a pop masterpiece. All three are directed by the delightfully inventive Sam Raimi, who was apparently bullied by producers to assemble such a crowded cast of characters. There’s simply too much plot here, and not nearly enough depth to justify all its 140 minutes.

The entire franchise has always had the ring of camp, yet it worked because the characters were solidly believable and engaging. Not so here—where everyone is reduced to a two-dimensional mechanism manipulated by an often laughably awful screenplay (helmed by the usually reliable Alvin Sargent and Sam & Ivan Raimi). There are more bad laughs in this film than most any major summer blockbuster in quite a while. The most jaw-dropping sequence occurs when Maguire, after being consumed by an alien dark side (I won’t even try to explain), becomes a swinging ladies man (in an obvious variation on Spiderman 2’s vastly superior nerd transformation montage), thrusting his pelvis while bouncing off the walls of a jazz club and seducing women with excruciating one-liners like “love that little giggle.” This is where it becomes most inevitable that Spiderman 3 was not ready to be released, and is still a messy work in progress.

That said, it’s still uproariously entertaining, although not in ways the filmmakers may have intended. Yet unlike the recent Star Wars trilogy, and last summer’s dismal Superman Returns, Spiderman mercifully doesn’t take itself too seriously, which is probably the only thing that saves it from becoming a complete disaster. James Franco, from the Hayden Christiansen-school of damp rag acting, gets to act cute for a while, even adorably ruining an omelet, in a scene that is in the picture solely to make the audience remember that he is an alright guy when he’s not seeking revenge for the death of his homicidal father. Kirsten Dunst is hopelessly bland, mangling “I’m Thru With Love” in the process (the lovely Bryce Dallas Howard fares no better). Scene upon scene seems intent on embarrassing its actors.

Thus the film is only enjoyable in parts: Danny Elfman’s ever-rousing score; the elegant transformation of Flint Marco (the sublime Thomas Hayden Church, given nothing to do but scowl) into the Sandman; some priceless scene-stealing bits from the always welcome J.K. Simmons and Bruce Campbell; some exciting (yet never extraordinary) action sequences; and Topher Grace’s nice turn as an evil version of his smug In Good Company character. On the other hand, what is James Cromwell doing here, how did a naked Peter Parker get from a church to back home (someone in the packed audience suggested he may have swung in the nude), where did the Sandman float to at the end (did he resign to live a peaceful life on the beach?), and why did the filmmakers allow every underutilized character to become hopelessly caught in the tangled web of the plot? Nothing connects this web—it’s just a bunch of disconnected, misplaced strands.

Rating: **1/2 (out of *****)