Once more, Sam Raimi is directing Stan Lee and Steve Ditko's comic-book creation, and you can almost feel the fatigue; his weariness is as contagious as a yawn. Whatever its precursors had going for it -- heart, mostly, an organ used almost as rarely as the brain in comic-book movies -- Spider-Man 3 isn't even terribly interested in the title character anymore. This is fine, to a point; after all, what made Spider-Man such an intriguing departure from its Spandex-clad predecessors was that it was as much about Peter Parker's angst and affections as about the powers afforded him by a radioactive spider bite. As in the earliest comics, Spider-Man was nothing more than Spider-Boy, a guilt-racked and lovestruck high-school senior who found joy only when swinging among Manhattan's skyscrapers.
But somewhere between that first joyous woo-hoo and this movie, Raimi and the revolving door of writers -- David Koepp gave way to Alvin Sargent, who's now joined by Sam and brother Ivan -- became too enamored of making Spider-Man movies in which the hero is but a bit player, a shrug in his own story. We don't even see much of the costumed character till late in the first act.
What's worse, the franchise's earnestness, its calling card, now feels forced -- stunted, even. The relationship between Peter (Tobey Maguire) and Mary Jane Watson (Kirsten Dunst) has ground to a stand-still; that passionate upside-down, rain-soaked kiss from the first film feels like a thousand movies ago. They're no further along now than they were the first go-round, when the dorky science student was wooing his longtime, next-door infatuation. They're in love but not exactly lovers -- not people who've almost died for each other time and time again -- and all they do is whine and moan at each other, to the point where Peter's driven to date lab partner Gwen Stacy (Bryce Dallas Howard). Gwen seems an infinitely better catch than the perpetually shrill and inexplicably selfish MJ, whose Broadway career takes a nosedive after it's revealed that, you know, she's actually a lousy singer.
It all just feels so... Fantastic Four, so dopey and forgettable and crafted out of second-rate cheese. The interesting villains (Green Goblin, Doctor Octopus) have been replaced by computer-generated leftovers, chief among them Thomas Haden Church's Flint Marko, a felon whose shape is shifted by an atom-scrambler that renders him the Sandman. Willem Dafoe and Alfred Molina were Wagnerian villains who pummeled Spider-Man with great cruelty and glee. More important, they were always on screen, there in the flesh to break a few bones. Church is often nothing more than a computer-generated dust cloud or a skyscraper-sized ball of mud -- a special effect that's none too special.
And then there is Venom, the alien entity who initially takes over Peter Parker before leaping, like a squid made of tar, onto the waiting flesh of Eddie Brock (a wasted Topher Grace), Peter's photojournalist rival at The Daily Bugle. A notable Spider-Man foe for years in the comics, Venom doesn't make a terribly good cinematic villain -- chiefly because we don't know squat about who or what he or it is, aside from a "symbiote" that amplifies Peter's worst instincts and turns him from a nebbish into an asshole in a silly and wholly inappropriate song-and-dance number straight out of Staying Alive. And Venom -- like every other character fighting for face time in an overplotted picture -- is barely in the film, here only so he and Sandman can face off with the li'l Goblin and Spidey in a finale so slapdash and silly it wouldn't even pass muster in a comic book.
Cobweb-slinger is more like it.
