Not only does Robert Downey discover- nay, mint - a new element, he and Gwen Paltrow manage to turn back the clock on aging and not even look as if they've had work done. Her strawberry blonde has been ratcheted up a notch, yet they seem to have captured her before she had children- impossible you say? At times Downey's nose appeared putty large, though with the right camera angle it suited his face perfectly. I don't recall being so transfixed by his nose previously? Something must have changed. Given that he looks far younger than the first flick ( hair flushed out with a few plugs here and there) the film offers a virtual version of the aging process, our hero ducking away at odd moments to stick his finger into -not an O2 sat device but a blood toxology meter. Despite starting out 29% toxic and it going downhill from there, it doesn't seem to phase him. He swigs black chlorophyll drinks while his audible British valet surround sound home computer lets him know its the Palladium in his heart that's killing him.
Although Don Cheadle flies by with some amazing hair painted to his head, he appears to be fulfilling some kind of contract obligation as his prodigious talent never registers much past dismay. To give you an idea of how long the final fight scene is, I had time to walk from the stadium seating to find a ladies room where the lights weren't working, go in search of another one, complete the entire business with a hand wash and wait for the auto towel machine- upon my return, the fight wasn't even half over and I missed nothing.
Meanwhile Johanssen- a veritable youngster- has her blonde locks daubed a saturated auburn hue. In her few closeup moments we are left to ponder if her similarly dunked green eyes are merely contacts, as she is permitted no expression. Though she may titillate our hero, who struggles mightily to overcome an incestuous brother/sister gig with Paltrow, no real sparks are fanned. Johanssen doesn't even get to sit at the same table with our hero, but may be seen perching uncomfortably nearby. She's 'from legal' we're told numerous times, though her original incarnation is as a lowly notary, her functionality for most of the film is to agree with bosses, assuaging their ego, whilst secretly acting as an operative for the Matrix-like Man from Uncle figure played by Samuel Jackson. Yeah, yeah, she does some drawn out scene in a white hallway where she literally mops the floor with a few guys, her knack dependent on throwing out a coupla zappy disks to electrically knock the bad guys (dressed in black-natch) off their feet so she can execute a signature Chinese crossed leg maneuver. Her act is as bloodless as the old Johnson Wax commercials and highly derivative of both Wonder Woman and Catherine Zeta Jones (Entrapment).
Perhaps in a nod to his directorial aspirations, Jackson poses as video deliveryman, depositing in his wake a few cannisters conspicuously labeled Kodak, the brand so retro that we need to be reminded what it is for. In one of the the film's quieter moments, we view reel to reel early sixties films of Stark's dad (leaving one to ponder that Stark must be in his late forties or early fifties) mouthing the usual Stark Industries PR drivel- until suddenly he is speaking to the camera, to his son, at least forty years later. Tony gets misty for about half a frame and then gets right back to business, connecting the dots in his dad's old world fair model - while weaving a really nice laser ball in midair- to create a new periodic element, solving his toxic blood problem while simultaneously giving his clanky suit a major shot of Red Bull. Luckily they still had the model hanging around at Paltrow's office - he gave her the job, by the way,and at the end of the job she tearfully acknowledges it's all too much for her. Can you spell misogyny? Never mind, I know it when I see it.
What to say about Mickey Rourke? No safe haven from the ravages of time here. His body and balloon-like facial features are such a caricature of the creature we knew in Diner that one can only stare with the same spellbound fascination customarily reserved for dwarfs and albinos. Apparently if you're Russian and born in Siberia you can intuit enough physics chops from your embittered imprisoned old man so that a few dormant years later just a bottle a vodka, a blowtorch and a parrot are all that's required to compete with the best inventions the mighty Stark Industries can buy. Welding school, here we come. Might even be musical in it, who knows.
Why is this film flan? Because the girls don't matter. Because the baddies are simply evil and the good guys get all the best lines.Because we know the plot before our seat gets warm. Just a comic book, you say? OK, in the manner of V for Vendetta, just a bad but not as boring (or creepy: I'm your faceless jailer and thirty years your senior, I just watched you starve for six months -now fuck me). The Dark Knight was more than a comic book, and this too has its moments. Downey testifying before a congressional panel in full Libertarian mode, zinging one liners exposing the fatuous perversity of that process, recalling lost integrity somewhere between HUAC and Iran Contra. Downey''s ability to draw out the narcissistic feats of his titan of industry while exposing the man beneath the curtain, varicose veins and all.
Thankfully it has a sense of humor and Downey. No thanks to Favreau's wooden direction and the boring plot with its under-developed Mickey Rourke moments.
