Deadpool [Review by Haus]

It’s sort of a running joke that Marvel’s blockbuster squad is giving its Midas-touch reach-around to progressively fringier characters in the comic book “universe,” a trend I blame on Iron Man and one that shows no sign of letting up. (I heard they’re doing Aquaman in 2018.) To this slow trudge of gold-plated also-rans we now add Deadpool, no one’s favorite secondary superhero who—thanks, handsy Midas!—actually deals a solid R-rated base hit in this strong, strong film.

As any helicopter parent will tell you, excellence starts early. And the opening credits are brilliant. Not the CGI, which is cool and all, but the actual credits. So rare to see something really novel done here. I’ve never laughed so hard at names before—and that includes the social security list of unusual baby names. I loved this opening nearly as much as I did 21 Jump Street’s end credits. (But them’s tall boots.) Also, if you were in LA on opening weekend, there were some truly inspired spoof billboards around town. Hausey likey.

Ryan Reynolds is in his element here as Wade Wilson, an ex-special forces type who falls in love, gets sick, and turns invincible. This isn’t the gentle rom-com Reynolds—no, this is the real, improv-bred, Van Wilder Canucklehead Reynolds. He’s crass and harsh, breaks the fourth wall on the motherflippin’ regular, and slings insults like Donald Trump in a Tough Mudder. He’s great. His white-hot love affair with his manic pixie dream girlfriend is a bit much, but gives him dramatic purpose and all. Also, he forgets stuff in cabs, leading to a cute (if lonesome) side storyline.

And not to toot my amateur-reviewer horn here, but I did once learn screenwriting from the late Syd Field himself at AFI—and armed as I am with this prestigious toe-dip into The Real Thing, I feel qualified to opine that this film is structurally very interesting. That’s as far down film school lane as I’ll take you, but check this out: Syd’s BMW 3-series had the vanity plate “PLT PNT.” Take that for lagniappe.

It’s a shame then that given such an engaging and in-your-face antihero lead, Marvel poops it down the bad pipe with a closed, self-referential story that distills down to Deadpool exacting bloodthirsty revenge on the dude who cured his cancer. There’s no real villain to speak of, no heroics, and nothing really for Deadpool to do besides take out his own dirty laundry—which causes one to wonder what he’ll do once that strange score is settled. (I’m sure Midas will figure something out.)

But as much as I generally despise closed-system superhero films (ahem, Green Lantern), here the basic narcissism of the storyline works fairly well. After all, Deadpool is unapologetically all about himself and his own problems, and the only folks with a ticket to the twitching bone heap are those who’ve wronged him in past. Fair enough, Mr. Pool.

What I won’t do here is trot out once more my standing objection to Marvel’s “mutant” science. It’s beyond ridiculous, and nothing’s changed. But couldn’t they at least have done something with the fact that cancerous cells are themselves mutated, so mutating him more would likely cause more cancer…? No. Sigh.

Haus Verdict: Ultraviolent. Funny, and in on the joke. Meta and it works so well you won’t mind the second-string X-Men and empty plot. See it.