When Criticism Needs To Be Criticised.

Christopher Nolan’s Inception (2010) was always liable to split critical opinion. Following hot on the heels of the immensely successful The Dark Knight (2008) – a film that rocketed into the IMDb top five within days of its release, going on to gross over a billion dollars – there were sure to be sceptics, just waiting for Nolan’s big fall. The hype was tangible even before the trailers hit and when they did arrive – filled to the brim with impressive special effects – it was clear where those Bruce Wayne millions had been spent. Marketed, perhaps misleadingly, as a mind-bending sci-fi where anything could happen, Inception had successfully given itself one more thing to live up to. Critics almost seemed to take it as a personal affront when the final product had more in common with James Bond than it did with Paprika (2006). Nolan had given them a visual tease that the results did not seem to match.

This view was exemplified in UK critic Jonathan Romney’s review for The Independent on Sunday, which argued that Inception’s template is not one of grand and immeasurable possibility, but one of instantly recognisable Hollywood templates. A conclusion as fair as any other; we all have opinions, and Romney is – of course – entitled to his. The problem with Romney’s writing, though, lies not with the verdict reached, but with the contradictions passed in order to get there. Claiming at one point that an early scene in which characters "watch calmly as Paris explodes around them [like the] the cleverest, glossiest sports car advert you've even seen...in a narrative film sticks out as gratuitous show-offery", he later goes on to comment that “dream, as seen [in Inception], is controlled, designed, pre-programmed, policed. Inception is not a hymn to the imagination so much as a militant oppression of it – a film that reduces dream to the mundane logic of the action movie." These, to my mind, seem to be two completely opposing criticisms. Does Romney want the dream sequences to be outlandish or not? The first comment suggests he believes Nolan was right to keep the realms of dream largely grounded, whilst the second seems to suggest that this was a disappointment. Further, Romney complains of the “mundane logic” of the latter dreams, seemingly without realising that he has already explained the reasons behind it – it is the “narrative” of Nolan’s film that dictates exactly why each dream plays out in the way that it does. The first sequence Romney dismisses is present in order for one character, Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio), to prove to another, Ariadne (Ellen Page), that they are experiencing a dream together. The latter ones he criticises are constructed with the exact opposite intention; so that the extraction/inception team can fool their target, Fischer (Cillian Murphy), into believing that he is awake. Creating a demented world of floating cheese monkeys probably wouldn’t quite have the desired effect.

Though Romney’s lack of clarity would be better described as clumsy rather than catastrophic, the slips were noticeable enough to get me thinking; does there come a point when criticism needs to be criticised? Romney’s descriptive errors were sloppy, but his main mistake is in believing that a film can be condemned simply for failing to be what you, the viewer, wanted it to be. In a recent blog entry charting the critical response to Inception, Roger Ebert summarised this excellently, writing that; “The last thing [the director] wanted was an untethered dream move. Nolan successfully made the film he had in mind, and shouldn't be faulted for failing to make someone else's.” Critics may not believe that Nolan’s logical approach to dream sequences is the most exciting, but since the film’s central conceit depends upon the idea that these worlds look and feel real, a well-written deconstruction needs to express where the film’s approach fails and not on how a different film may have been more pleasing.

In this light, Romney’s review may not have been the best, but at least he attempted to convey his experience of the film with specific complaints and examples, which – when compared to the abysmal critique provided by The New York Observer’s Rex Reed – seems like a blessing even more than it is a necessity. Reed’s approach consists of the three basic steps;

1) Use as many negative words as possible.

2) Avoiding talking about the film for as long as you can.

3) If you do describe the material, be sure to be inaccurate.

He starts by listing Nolan’s back catalogue, providing each film with a meaninglessly isolated adjective explaining why he doesn’t like it. Memento (2000), for example, is apparently “brainless”, whilst Batman Begins (2005) is “idiotic” and The Dark Knight (most curiously of all) is somehow both “mechanical” and “maniacally baffling”, something that would actually strike me as oddly impressive. Reed doesn’t think so though. “Is it clear that I have consistently hated his movies without exception, and I have yet to see one of them that makes a lick of sense”, he asks – or at least I think he does, it’s hard to tell since his sentence doesn’t actually end with a question mark. That last point may seem petty, almost like a delay tactic to avoid speaking about Reed’s actual description of Inception, but note that I’m describing a review that begins with three hundred and fifty words of name-calling (Reed even finding time to call Charlie Kaufman a “bottom feeder” for no apparent reason) before passing any notable comment on the actual film and it suddenly seems strangely appropriate.

When Reed does finally begin to talk about Nolan’s current release, it’s clear that he doesn’t like the film, but he gives no real impression as to why – other than the fact that he clearly didn’t understand it. I’m not being a smart aleck with that assertion. Reed literally states as much in the title of his review – “Could somebody please explain Inception to me?” His error, however, is to believe that this dictates we won’t understand it either. Keeping his terms derogatory yet vague, Reed assures us that Inception is “prattling drivel” without “one iota of cogent or convincing logic” whilst the frequent use of the second person ensures that this opinion is also put into the mouth of his readers. “You never know who anyone is, what their goals are, who they work for or what they’re doing”, he informs us. For somebody that thinks Nolan’s script is nonsense, Rex certainly has an intriguing ability to see inside our heads.

On the rare occasion that Reed does decide to provide direct reference to Inception’s content, his review is replete with basic factual errors. When describing DiCaprio’s character, for example, he misquotes Cobb as stating that he is “the most skilled extractor of dreams”, the last two words of which Reed has added himself. A small mistake on the surface, this is in fact enough to change the entire intention of Nolan’s script; a trend that continues when Reed describes the film’s central premise. “Inception”, Reed states, is a process in which “instead of stealing dreams, [Cobb’s team] must plant some.” This is entirely wrong. At no point in the film is it suggested that Nolan’s characters steal or plant their target’s dreams, rather it is made clear that they enter shared dreams with their target in order to access or manipulate their ideas. Even when providing the evidence needed to support his opinion then, Reed’s review is inaccurate. We can only hope that it was written in a dream state.

It is true of course that a critic – as with any filmgoer – may not understand every film they see upon first viewing. However, they must be well aware of their obligation to try and explain why. They cannot just provide a list of vague adjectives, supported only by selections of misinformation, and then assume that their readers will undoubtedly agree. Everybody has their own opinion, but in order to express theirs a reviewer must deal accurately and clearly with the material on display. Roger Ebert rightly praised fellow critic David Edelstein’s negative review of Inception, not because he agreed with it, but because it was well-written. Edelstein’s comparisons (“it lacks the nimbleness of Spielberg's Minority Report, or the Jungian-carnival bravado of Joseph Ruben's Dreamscape, or the eerily clean lines and stylized black-suited baddies of The Matrix”) were valid; his argument supported. His writing stands as evidence that – if a review is good – then the opinion given is irrefutable, even if it fails to persuade. If only they could always be like this. As things stand though, sometimes even criticism needs to be criticised.

Happily Ever After? The search for a perfect ending.

A note from the writer: this feature discusses endings in modern cinema and as such contains spoiler details regarding the conclusion of each film mentioned. All titles are written in bold so as to alert the reader, but if you don’t want to know the result, look away now...

At the end of Steven Spielberg’s War of the Worlds (2005), our hero Ray (Tom Cruise) arrives in Boston to find not only that his ex-wife’s neighbourhood has been completely untouched by the conflict, but that his son – last seen running toward certain death in an alien fire fight – has somehow both survived and made it there before him. It is a moment so out of kilter with what has occurred before that it immediately seems far less real than the film’s alien tripods. A narrative’s closing moments can have a great impact on our final view of it, making it essential to get things right. However, it is far too easy to mistake the best ending with the one that seems the most satisfying. Does every story need a “happily ever after”?

Log onto the IMDb.com message board for John Frankenheimer’s 1998 film Ronin and you might, as with any film, expect to find debates regarding minor plot holes and possible explanations thereof. Instead though, the page is dominated by posts deriding the feature’s inconclusive ending. “What was in the case?” This is the question repeated over and over. It would seem that in refusing to reveal the contents of a container pursued by Irish and Russian criminals throughout the film, Frankenheimer and his screenwriter (J.D. Zeik), have – in the eyes of many IMDb users – ended the story in an unsatisfactory manner. They have made use of what Alfred Hitchcock referred to as a ‘MacGuffin’ (a device that motivates the characters and advances the plot, but the details of which are of little or no relevance otherwise), but for some viewers human curiosity has allowed the particulars of this object to take up the position of central importance. In reality, the case is incidental. When the true motivations of Robert DeNiro’s undercover CIA agent are revealed, we discover that he doesn't want its contents and, due to his actions, neither the Irish nor the Russian gangs end up getting it. Perhaps this is all we need to know? At the film’s conclusion, Jean Reno’s character, Vincent, tells us in voiceover; “No questions. No answers. That's the business we're in. You just accept it and move on.” He is of course referring to the life of a mercenary, but it could also be seen as a comment on the film as a whole, or indeed aspects of life itself.

There will always be knowledge that we cannot access and, if art is designed to reflect something of life, then why have we come to expect more closure from it than we might get in reality? As children we are raised on fairytales with happy endings, but before that we listen to nursery rhymes where there is often no resolution. Humpty Dumpty cannot be put back together again, Jack and Jill never get their pail of water and it remains unclear as to whether Little Miss Muffet ever gets to finish her curds and whey. This is not to suggest that all stories must finish on a down note, but we should be aware from a young age that not every narrative has to end with all threads neatly tied-off.

Indeed, returning to cinema, it could be said that sometimes the themes of a film can be reinforced far more by an ending that refuses to compromise with what the audience may be expecting. Take, for example, Joel and Ethan Coen’s Fargo (1996). This is a film where, in the end, good people triumph and the greedy are punished for their crimes. It seems ironic then that the dedicated IMDb message board is littered with people lamenting the loss of the $920,000 that Steve Buscemi’s Carl leaves buried in the snow before his untimely demise. The story should be wrapped up, yet - by our very nature - many of us find ourselves wanting to know what happened to all that cash. In her monologue towards the film’s close, Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand) states that there’s more to life than “a little bit of money”. Of course, the audience are privy to the knowledge that there are much larger sums involved than she is aware, but the point remains; too many of us find ourselves focused on that fictional stash when there is so much more we should take away from this story. Far from problematic though, this can actually be viewed as the screenplay’s creative masterstroke. In leaving audience members debating the fate of the lost money, the Coens have left these viewers unwittingly aligned not with the story’s heroes, but instead with its villains, allowing the film to serve as a fictional parable that calls into question the materialistic priorities of our own lives.

The brothers proved themselves masters of such ‘unsatisfying’ endings with 2007’s No Country for Old Men. By the time of the film’s climax the character assumed to be the story’s hero has died off-screen, his innocent wife’s fate has been left uncertain, the villain has walked away alive and free, and an aging sheriff has been left questioning his worth in this increasingly violent society. Many who saw the feature were left wondering where the resolution was and, of course, there was none. In response to negative reactions to the film’s ending, star Josh Brolin (the aforementioned ‘hero’ of the piece) was quoted as saying:

I love that people leave the movie saying, “I hate the ending. I was so pissed.” Good, it was supposed to piss you off...You completely lend yourself to [my] character and then you’re completely raped of this character. I don’t find it manipulative at all. I find it to be a great homage to that kind of violence.

The film is about the opportunism, greed and violence that can take hold with increased intensity in each new generation born into a morally apathetic society. Aggression and avarice breed in kind and unfortunately it is unlikely that this will lead to a positive outcome. Ultimately the story is perhaps more about Sheriff Ed Tom Bell, as portrayed by Tommy Lee Jones, than it is about Brolin’s character. At the film’s close, Ed Tom describes a dream in which he sees his father “fixin’ to make a fire somewhere out there in all that dark and all that cold”. However, he says that - before he could witness the blaze - he “woke up”, forced to return to reality. Far from being ineffective, this conclusion reinforces what has been suggested by the events throughout. Society has been enveloped by dark, cold realities and those older generations who fail to adapt will find themselves left behind, unable to see or create any change in the situation. It is not the ending that anybody wants for these characters, but it is the ending that best suits the tale.

It could be falsely deduced from such observations that, in order to be effective, a film’s closing moments must set out to thwart audience desire. This is not true. The point of this article is not to suggest that it is essential for filmmakers to leave people confused or pondering loose ends, more that they should not shy away from doing so purely to create a resolution where one isn’t necessary. Sometimes the perfect ending can be conclusive and rewarding, but in other cases it can be uncertain, upsetting, perhaps even frustrating. For each story there is an appropriate denouement that will best compliment the events narrated and themes raised and filmmakers should never be afraid let the right conclusion show.

Perhaps though, to avoid accusations of scepticism, it is best to end this particular commentary with an example of a full resolution executed well. During the same months that No Country for Old Men graced our screens, another feature provided one of the finest endings in recent memory. This one, in contrast to those mentioned above, was brilliant through its conclusiveness. When the final words of Paul Thomas Anderson’s There Will Be Blood (2007) are uttered by aging oil-tycoon Daniel Plainview (Daniel Day-Lewis), they can be seen as carrying at least four different meanings, each firmly suggesting that an endpoint has been reached. As his butler approaches him, Plainview sits on the floor, food strewn across the room from the meal the servant left him eating. A man’s dead body lies nearby, his head caved in by Plainview moments before. Suddenly, speaking as if in answer to the most informal of questions his butler could possibly be thinking...

- Are you done with your meal, Sir?

- Are you through beating that young man to death?

- How do you think this situation will affect your future prospects?

- Do you think this story of your ever decreasing sanity has now run its course?

...Plainview blurts out a casual, two word sentence. It is the absurd yet perfect conclusion to a film that has shown how nonchalantly destructive a man can be when driven solely by power, and – for entirely different reasons – it is the perfect way to end this article. That sentence is simply this; “I’m finished”.

Film review: October (1928) ***1/2

“Peace, Land and Bread,” reads the Bolshevik slogan, pivotal in Sergei Eisenstein’s October (1928). The director visited these themes in 1925’s Battleship Potemkin and, despite moving the setting forward twelve years from 1905 to 1917, October suggests that little has changed. The similarities should not come as a surprise. It was due to Potemkin’s international success and representation of Soviet ideals that Eisenstein was commissioned by the Russian government to make this film; a 10^th Anniversary celebration of 1917’s October Revolution. What we see here then is a continued development of the director’s prior work, both in terms of the historical events shown and the methods employed to portray them.

Through his pioneering use of montage, Eisenstein juxtaposes shots in attempt to evoke an intellectual response. In one set-piece depicting the suppression of an anti-government protest, furiously paced cuts between the barrel of a machine-gun and the gunner’s manically smiling face are suggestive not only of the sound and workings of the gun itself, but also of the casual immorality of the establishment forces. As a series of bridges are raised to quell the resulting chaos by separating the workers’ district from the city, Eisenstein contrasts striking shots of a slain horse - hanging over the edge of a slowly rising bridge - with the image of a sphinx-like Egyptian statue. These images, unconnected on the surface, invite the audience to draw similarities with another society that was reliant upon, but wholly mistreated, its working class.

Expertly executed as such sequences are, the film often lacks the tension required to be suggestive of an imminent uprising. As a result, when the remarkable scenes do occur, they seem all too brief, none proving as enduringly memorable as Potemkin’s oft-referenced Odessa steps sequence. It is perhaps for these reasons that the film has never quite matched the acclaim of its predecessor, yet - despite this - October remains a landmark in the artistry of Eisenstein’s technique.

Film review: À ma soeur! (2001) ****

It is rare that anybody’s first sexual encounter occurs exactly as they imagined. Let’s face it; “the right time” with “the right person” hardly ever happens. À Ma Sœur! (2001) follows two adolescent French girls seeking to avoid this trend. Elena (Roxane Mesquida), a pretty 15 year-old, wishes to save herself for her true love. Anaïs though (Anaïs Reboux), Elena’s overweight 12 year-old sister, believes a true love deserves experience and so intends to give herself to a random partner. But on a family holiday to the South of France, Elena is seduced by a handsome Italian four years her senior (Libero de Rienzo) and is soon coerced into sexual experimentation much sooner than she anticipated - all whilst her sister lies awake and watching in the next bed.

Already holding a reputation for her frank meditations on sexuality, writer-director Catherine Breillat does not retreat from showing the uncomfortable results. During the awkward bedroom scenes, Anaïs looks on - attracted and horrified in equal measure - literally watching through her fingers. As the camera lingers steadily on her sister’s intimacy, seemingly invading an already unpleasant moment, this voyeurism is passed onto the audience, forcing them to either witness or recoil. Breillat carries these moments of emotional transference throughout the film. One unnerving sequence, showing a car journey that follows a family dispute, assaults with a visual and aural sense of danger. With each honking horn, high-speed lane change and roar of a passing truck the audience are made passengers, sitting in constant fear of an accident. Breillat’s frequent use of sustained shots and extended scenes ensures that nothing is cut short for emotional relief.

With an ending that comes out of leftfield, yet perfectly complements the story’s themes, this is a film that looks without blinkers at the complexities of familial ties and adolescent sexuality. The picture it paints is not pretty, but Breillat’s startling approach will not fail to make an impression.

Film review: Dear Frankie (2004) ***

With a story that is simultaneously optimistic and saddening, Shona Auerbach's Dear Frankie is perhaps best described as the sort of film that makes you smile on a Bank Holiday afternoon spent with your parents. That may sound like a cynical introduction, but picture other charming ‘Sunday afternoon’ fare such as ITV’s Goodnight, Mister Tom (1998), and you may appreciate the compliment.

The film centres on the titular Frankie (Jack McElhone), a nine year-old deaf child, raised in Scotland by his single mother, Lizzie (Emily Mortimer). Frankie believes his father is away at sea, but when news comes in of his dad’s boat docking at the local harbour, it soon becomes apparent that Lizzie has been protecting her son from the truth. If she wishes to continue the charade, a stand-in will be needed; an apprehensive Gerard Butler, credited only as “The Stranger”.

A story about human connections, Dear Frankie hinges upon both writer Andrea Gibb’s restrained script and the understated performances of its cast. Emily Mortimer is suitably enclosed as a woman trying to come to terms with a life permanently unsettled, her sad eyes telling us that she is always thinking of Frankie’s wellbeing, even when searching the town for a new man. Butler also does well, first displaying near disgust at Lizzie’s deceit of her son, before becoming an image of genuine affection during his scenes with Frankie. Perhaps expectedly though, it is the young lead who proves most crucial. Lending Frankie a believable sweetness, McElhone’s performance allows events to progress without crossing the line into unconvincing. As Lizzie and The Stranger grow to trust each other, it is the lovable portrayal of the child between them that makes their connection plausible. Dear Frankie then, is something often unseen; a film that not only acknowledges the narrow gap between sentiment and mawkishness, but passes through it successfully.

Film review: Festival (2005) **1/2

Comedic, but not romanticised, Festival is writer-director Annie Griffin’s portrayal of life beneath the surface of the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. An ensemble piece, the film weaves together stories as Irish comic, Tommy O’Dwyer (Chris O’Dowd), attempts to seduce a local radio host and comedy competition juror, Joan Gerard (Daniela Nardini), who herself is involved in a clash of personalities with arrogant celebrity comic, Sean Sullivan (Stephen Mangan), a member of her judging panel.

These characters are only a few in a collection of personalities serving to highlight the tensions between the entertainment industry and the personal happiness of its stars. “This is a festival, it’s about fun”, Joan’s producer tells her in one scene and it is this expectation of constant joviality that weighs so heavily upon the lives of entertainers. Indeed, even when Sean and his disillusioned agent, Petra (Raquel Cassidy), are arguing on a hotel staircase, passing tourists assume that they must be witnessing a play. Festivals may bring lives together, but they can also disrupt them. It is this irony that Griffin is interested in.

Sadly though, the director’s approach to her exploration of the showbiz underbelly is not always a success. Take, for example, her unabashed portrayal of sex. The sight of Tommy lifting his face from Joan’s crotch to swig on a Barcardi miniature amuses, but a scene in which a comic whose routine is reliant upon having his hand in a puppet’s rear-end finds himself on the receiving end of his own scenario seems entirely misjudged.

The main problem though is that Festival simply tries to do too much. The central threads engage, but elsewhere characters seem peripheral and weakly drawn - a trio of kooky Canadian performers are little more than a clichéd annoyance, whilst the tragic arc of a clergyman and his one-man show about paedophile priests seems largely unnecessary. Had it been more focused then this bleak comedy could have been a hit, instead though the frequent variation in quality creates a link between entertainment and frustration almost as strong as the one the story attempts to exemplify.

Film review: A Streetcar Named Desire (1951) *****

Released in 1951, Eliah Kazan’s adaptation of the Tennessee Williams play A Streetcar Named Desire tells of disturbed Southern belle, Blanche DuBois (Vivien Leigh), who arrives in New Orleans seeking refuge with her sister, Stella (Kim Hunter), following the unexpected loss of her family plantation. Bullied and tormented by her brutish brother-in-law, Stanley (Marlon Brando), the secrets of Blanche’s past slowly reveal themselves as she is gradually driven deeper into her own despair. Leigh’s face tells the whole story. Blanche is terrified by the violent dynamic between Stella and Stanley and yet captivated by every male she sees. With her longing eyes and pouting lips, Leigh is constantly expressing newfound love as Blanche seeks solace with one man after another, exposing her desperate desire for protection long before the script does.

But this is Brando’s show. His Stanley is a picture of unrestrained masculinity; his handsome features and imposing physique suggesting he’s equally capable of seduction or violence. His muscular arms are there for Blanche to grasp when startled by an alley-cat, but they also belie an aggressive streak. With his T-shirts perpetually drenched in sweat and his drawling voice coming from a mouth that is almost always mid-chew, he is – as Blanche describes – “an animal”, eating, mating and ruling over the territory of the small apartment set. With Brando’s ability for both restrained anger and outbursts of rage, Stanley’s every smile has the potential to turn to intense wrath. One second he is Blanche’s confidant, the next her attacker, throwing her down and cruelly mocking her. It’s hard to believe a face can simultaneously convey both belittlement and lust, but as Stanley advances on Blanche, jaw still chewing, Brando’s displays just that. A thug to be hated, played by a force that cannot be resisted; like Stella, we want more of him, but are unable to explain why.

Ordinary Heroes. Comic book writer Mark Millar on why the superhero genre needs a Kick-[up-the]-Ass.

When you were younger, did you ever wonder how you would fare as a superhero? Not a version of you with bullet-like pace, super strength, or the ability to fly – just plain, old, regular you? If you suspect it probably would have resulted in a horrific beating, imagine no more; Scottish comic book writer Mark Millar has put the scene down on paper so that you don’t have to. The adaptation of Kick-Ass by director Matthew Vaughn and co-writer Jane Goldman is currently riding high at the UK box-office, but it was Millar that first brought the scenario to light. Containing all the savage violence and ‘C’-word dropping children currently enraging film critics at the Daily Mail, it was in his comic that the story first took form. What on Earth was he thinking?

“It’s entirely autobiographical,” laughs Millar, speaking in a recent appearance at the Glasgow Film Festival. “A friend from school and I just loved superhero comics, particularly the realistic stuff, like Alan Moore and Frank Miller, and we thought; ‘let’s do this, let’s try and be superheroes.’” At fifteen years old and weighing in at a combined weight of around sixteen stone, it’s safe to say Millar and his cohort might not have been the most imposing deterrent criminals could ever face, they would have – as Millar now freely admits – ended up in hospital. Fortunately though, circumstance meant that their time of trial never really arrived; “luckily we were in rural Scotland, it was hardly Gotham central.” But this didn’t stop them trying. “We designed costumes and created characters for ourselves,” Millar timidly confesses, “I was called ‘Mr Danger’. I wanted to be like Rorschach from Watchmen, but I looked more like a walking Oxfam advert”. If Millar’s idea wasn’t exactly original, then his friend hardly fared better; “He decided to be Batman!”

Eventually Millar settled for writing superhero stories, rather than starring in them and it seems unlikely that he would regret his decision – he has recently become the biggest selling British comic book writer currently being published in America. Yet even today, as he publicises the second big-screen adaptation of his writing (the first being 2008’s Wanted), he observes his peers’ continued reluctance to let go of other people’s characters. “People always say that Superman and Batman are forever”, Millar tells his audience at the Glasgow Film Theatre, “but they’re not. They’re forever to us because we’re mortal, but things belong to their time and they evolve to become other things. What started off as Hercules five thousand years ago turned into Superman and it’ll be something else in two thousand years time.” The transition, Millar believes, is already underway and, following a conversation with comic book legend, Stan Lee (creator of such massive names as Spider-man and the X-men), the writer has developed an insatiable urge for fresh ideas. “Stan once told me that if he’d just been writing about his favourites then it would have all been Tarzan, Superman and Batman – no Spider-man, no Hulk, nothing. And I thought that was interesting, because now everybody just wants to do Stan’s creations when they could be doing their own.” Today, the much loved tree-swinger of Lee’s generation has as good as died out from the world of comics, how long will it be before the others follow suit? “I think we’re coming to the end of those 20^th Century heroes,” Millar comments, “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got Christopher Reeve’s cape from Superman hanging on my wall at home – those characters means a lot to me – but I see that as a particular period in my life. I just think they belong to a different era”.

It’s about time, Millar believes, that the industry produced some new heroes, rather than relying on those that have gone before. Ever the creative mind, he has his own way of describing the situation. “The way I think of it is to imagine somebody who’s thinking of starting a family. They don’t think; ‘Let’s try to resuscitate that old man and then maybe we’ll adopt him,’ they think; ‘Let’s just have a baby.’” A new generation of readers calls for a new generation of characters, and Millar – to continue his metaphor – hopes that he can help give birth to them. Nonetheless, he acknowledges that certain archetypes will always remain relevant. “There’s a line we can draw from the Golden Age of comics to now where you can see character types developing; Clark Kent and Peter Parker are kind of similar and I’ve tried to carry that lineage through with Kick-Ass.”

So, is Dave Lizewski (the eponymous Kick-Ass) the sort of super-nerd the 21^st Century needs? Millar would like to think so. It’s a bold claim, but the writer assures people that he is not attempting to put himself on a creative pedestal. “I think a lot of is to do with the timing as opposed to the quality of the work. I think this generation doesn’t have its Spider-man yet, it forms a vacuum.” Millar is just lucky that his work has been given the opportunity to fill the void. But, at this stage, it is still just that – an opportunity. In order for a hero to be successful today, simply conquering the comic book medium isn’t enough; there is another art form that craves new and occasionally radioactive, blood. Hollywood has been riding high on the superheroes for a number of years now and with 2008 not only yielding the record breaking The Dark Knight, but also a summer blockbuster for the previously B-list hero, Iron Man, the genre is showing no signs of slowing down. That is, of course, until it runs out of characters. “I think that’s one of the reasons Kick-Ass became a movie within months of the comic book,” Millar muses, “there’s just such a hunger for it. Sony have bought the rights to my last story, War Heroes, and I’ve already had people ask me about my next book, Nemesis. Hollywood just eats up ideas so fast.”

It’s interesting that Hollywood should suddenly take such a strong interest in Millar’s work. When director Matthew Vaughn originally tried to pitch the idea of an adaptation of Kick-Ass, every major studio refused involvement unless drastic changes were made. The main bone of contention was Hit Girl – played in the film by Chloë Moretz. A supporting character in Millar’s story, she is an 11 year-old girl raised by her father, Big Daddy, to become not just a superhero, but a criminal killing machine – a stark contrast to the protagonist Dave’s more nervous approach. Oh, and she also happens to have a mouth like a sailor. For some reason producers seemed to think there was something unmarketable about the ultra-violent, swear-spouting, pre-pubescent youngster.

Considering some of the awkward territory Millar enters even speaking of her casting process, perhaps this is not surprising. “I was on a train, talking on my mobile, and I just went into a little bubble where I forgot other people could hear me. ‘Matthew and I have had a brilliant few days,’ I said, ‘we’ve just been watching DVDs of loads of wee girls!’” It’s the sort of discussion that would usually see your name joining a criminal register, rather than the box-office top ten. But a new kind of superhero film needs a new kind of approach and this is exactly what Vaughn and Millar opted for, deciding to fund the film independently before enticing distributors by revealing the first rapturously received clips at 2009’s San Diego Comic-Con. It’s a choice that Millar feels was essential to the film’s success. “If we had done Kick-Ass with the studios it would have been a sanitised mess and probably wouldn’t have even made it out theatrically. Doing it outside the system let us make the movie we really wanted to make” – 11 year-old assassins and all.

With an admirable share of positive reviews suggesting that the filmmakers were right to stick to their guns, the dust of controversy surrounding Kick-Ass may well be settling, but this doesn’t mean that Millar is ready to stop playing with convention. “I’d like to do a superhero film set in Scotland”, the writer reveals, speaking of a possible foray into directing. “I want to do something as cool as District 9 was to South Africa. I think it’s really interesting when people juxtapose two things you wouldn’t often see together – like alien invasion and South African politics. So I thought; superheroes and Scotland.” If the concept sounds a little BBC on paper, don’t worry, Millar – as always – has his own vision. “I really like Alan Clarke stuff, like Scum [1979]. I love the way it’s so raw and real. I think it’d be great to do superhero movie like that. I think it could be really epic; something unlike anything anybody’s ever seen before.” After seeing Kick-Ass, it’s easy to believe him.