Once upon a time, Stan Lee was upset that he was a comic book scribbler, not a novelist (ie., a real writer) and he was thinking of quitting comic books. His wife Joan told him to do a comic book he was really proud of. The result was the Fantastic Four.
Well, Hollywood has treated us once again to a movie about the Fantastic Four. And once again, it has bombed. And I mean bombed. Hiroshima-level bombed. In a time when superhero movies are almost impervious to box-office failure—when special effects can give us realistic-looking monsters, other-worldly cities of the gods and flying aircraft carriers—when even obscure characters like Ant-Man and the Guardians of the Galaxy can print box-office tickets at will—the FF drop like a lead balloon dumped down one of the Mole Man’s subterranean tunnels.
And my mind has just rolled out through my ear canal and flopped onto the desk. (Actually, I bet Reed Richards could do that.) Because I simply can’t comprehend how anyone could manage to ruin this idea. Multiple times. As if no one in the movie industry has the vaguest clue as to what they have here.
And I keep saying: Oh…
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