Yep. Those are nipples. Did we learn nothing from Batman and Robin? Nothing?!
Funny thing about movies based on books for which you have geekly feelings: if you don’t see it on the fanboy-choked opening weekend, you’re likely to have the same experience the Evil did when he saw Watchmen on Wednesday night.
In a theater that might have been a quarter full, the Evil heard a single faint echo of his own murmurs, sighs and grunts. Issuing from a point one row above and a few seats to his right, these were the auditory identifiers of the one other person in the theater who’d read Watchmen. We were like two really dorky tigers roaring into the jungle to mark our territory. We reacted to the same shots, the same lines of dialogue . . . sent out quiet hoots of surprise at which scenes made it into the flick, which didn’t.
Evil would even bet he and his fellow dork shared the same expression as the climax of the movie played out. Not exactly one of surprise—because, like the Evil, said dork had surely already read that Zack Snyder changed the ending. It was closer to the expression you wear as you wait to hear the excuse your least responsible friend is going to offer for wrecking your car. You knew he was a screwup, yet you still let him borrow your ride—what are you gonna do?
On the whole, Evil deems Watchmen acceptable. Eventually someone was going to make a movie out of it—though Evil always had his fingers crossed for a six-episode HBO miniseries—and it could have been infinitely horrid. (Though the guy who played Ozymandias is the most puzzling, WTF example of miscasting Evil can remember. Seriously . . . that guy?)
Something’s been nagging the Evil about comic book movies, though, and after seeing Watchmen, he finally knows what it is. Over the past decade, more and more fanboy directors have devoted themselves to using the comics themselves as storyboards for their flicks. Which in itself sounds great; why wouldn’t you use the source materials?
Here’s why: first of all, ninety percent of your viewers will neither know or care how loyal you were to the comics—not just to the origin story or the costumes or the general tone, but to the actual comic panels themselves. And for those of us who do know, you can’t win, because whenever you do depart from the source material—which you inevitably must—the effect is so jarring it yanks your core-dorks out of the picture.
That’s what happened during Watchmen; for ten minutes Evil would be drifting along, knowing exactly what the next scene would look like, what dialogue the actors would spout—hell, even where they would be positioned onscreen, such was Snyder’s generally fetishistic devotion to the comics—and then something (something so minute you would mock Evil mercilessly over if you only knew)—would jerk him back into the theater.
Look: it’s not like Evil’s asking for the return to nipples-on-the-Batsuit. But hey, a little creative license never hurt no one, right?
(. . . Except when it comes to the space squid. Come on, Snyder—what the fuck?)
Enjoy the weekend. If possible, geek out to ya own thang.