Sam Raimi
Spiderman 3

"Let’s go to the cinema"; so my friend suggests after a day at the beach. It’s seven in the evening; I, who gulp down light as much as I can, would be reluctant. However, given my nature as a gentleman, I agree, accepting the challenge of uncomfortable seats and phones ringing indifferent to the screening.

They’re showing "Spiderman 3" and "My Brother Is an Only Child"; no, Scamarcio, no. He hasn’t done anything to me, but he’s always serious, brooding. He’s handsome, no doubt. And then I was an avid reader of Spiderman in the Distant Times, so... why not? I didn’t even mind the first one, even though the cinema’s xenon lamp was giving its last, and the film was dark dark...

As an octogenarian, a flamboyant paraplegic, for me, Spiderman (anvedi Spiderman of Lorenzian memory) means three things: Steve Ditko, my first and last soccer team (the Spidermen, with tall grass and sound thrashings from the opponents, physically challenged guys but as keen as tigers to play, win and escape the long-term laying woes), the wretched movies with Nicholas Hammond from the late seventies (search to believe; I’d want them back because their poverty was fascinating).

Sam Raimi, dear... We arrive at the cinema 20 minutes before the start, with trailers unfolding: Johnny Depp as a pirate, chit-chat and popcorn. Behind us, a sinister row of thirteen-year-olds ready for anything. It suits me: they’re kids, and this is also a film for kids (and then, Happy, do you remember the fourth screenings with Godzilla, what a mess you made at the after-work cinema, the stinking toilet of stale piss, the inevitable fire of ppetards, and the clattering of the seats in front at the scream Godzillaaaa, with the irate Hunchback being on the peace).

The film starts, thx blasting:

CHRONICLE OF A TRAGEDY: the youngsters talk throughout the film, making a collage between incongruous appearances of Darth Vader, he’s the asshole sandman, Kirsten Durst has no boobs, laughter when Peter Parker and Mary Anne cry on a bridge (maybe in the room beyond Scamarcio is giving his last on the Milvio bridge, but Scamarcio doesn’t know how to cry). Ah, a bloody curse from the youngest of the gang when the Sandman appears in the final battle. I laugh a bit, then they start to annoy: I threaten them with death, and they quiet down but only for a bit. Then they start again at full throttle. Oh well, this film seems like A BULLSHIT: yes, this film is bullshit. The uncomfortable seat may have contributed, the kids behind me (but they were kind of funny, and then what should they do if the film is a bullshit?), adults who no longer notice the difference between a cinema and home video in front of the couch where you can pause at will, mess around, make noise, cook up some eggs while Scamarcio locks up padlocks (not the director of "My Brother Is an Only Child".. what destiny Scama').

The fact is that Peter Parker is a bit more of a dork than in the comics: Tobey McGuire is doing his best to TomHank him, with his goodness and glassy nerd eyes. In this film, he discovers his evil nature, thanks to a gum-like blob sticking to the Piaggio Ciao license plate, his means of locomotion which disappoints the kids behind me (Hey, why does Spiderman go around with a Ciao?). The spider gum turns into a new shell for Peter, and so the fortunate will come into contact with his dark side. Which manifests with him roaming like Travolta on the hunt for hottie glances and dancing at the jazz club where his girl (Kirsten Durst’s dumpling, I don’t like her, small boobs) struggles and sings standards after being kicked out of a musical, caught braying.

Sounds like the plot of a big episode of Dawson Creek, right? In fact, it's the private parts that prevail over the action; the longed-for action. Which pops up here and there, where that fine man the sandman creates several Jesolo beaches around town, chasing money for his little one. He, who has taken out Peter’s uncle, revenge terrible revenge...

Okay, I was going to tell it all; instead, I’ll say why I DID NOT LIKE IT: I acknowledge Sam Raimi a touch that reveals itself even in the use of computer graphics. That is very advanced but always with a certain unattainableness that keeps the comic a comic. But, if in the stories, Peter Parker is indeed a nerd full of auntie and goodness, the depth of the protagonists’ psychologies is leveled to fifteen-year-old height. And then there's the annoyance of all the intimate traps, similar to the American TV series, with voiceovers, as if we were on Scrubs. The screenplay is as messy as Rubik's Level or Snakes and Ladders, making it hard to follow, not attributable to the kids’ uproar or cell phones. Uncomfortable, bewildering, with inlays that severely test the patience of viewers (laughter and ughs in the room, I note) with Gobelin’s kid, similar to Jeff Buckley, playing tug-of-war throughout the story. Obviously, the hot scenes are the top (like how the sandman becomes the sandman, Venom) but the villains are quickly dismissed to make room for others of the n.4. much seems like the puerile romances should be the main draw. If they always joked with the laugh track underneath acting as a watchdog, we'd be in "Friends" but if they joke here, they’re pastor jokes.

There you go: now there might be critics more competent than me to reprimand me and freeze my coulottes with slaps for what I wrote. But I’m old, and before me, there’s only one road: the sunset boulevard (...a Glenmorange on the rocks, ppplease).