the surge of stunning snaps

splinters of sanctuary

stolen

bruised, broken, and battered

sobbing in the streets

riptide of random ruin

razed

My heart and thoughts go out to those who are suffering following the disastrous tornado in Moore, OK. 

When I was in college (strange to look back and realize this was about ten years ago now), I started to write fiction regularly. I got my start the way so many self-respecting nerds get their start in fiction writing, and that is writing fan fiction. (Note to all fan fiction writers–I do not mean to say that fan fiction is only rudimentary. It isn’t–it’s just a great place to begin the path to writing fiction.) I wrote Harry Potter fan fiction and I loved learning how to develop plots, write compelling descriptions and dialogue, and build a story from the comfort of a world I knew so well.

From there, I started wanting to create my own fiction–my own worlds. I migrated into writing my own fantasy stories, which then became writing horror stories (mainly to satisfy an obsession with zombies as a literary device). I was happy to post all of this anywhere and everywhere for the world to see and I didn’t care what happened if someone didn’t like it. Granted, I’m always happy to receive constructive criticism, but mean comments that weren’t helpful at all didn’t get me down.

Then I began writing historical fiction, which I love. It takes a lot longer, sure, because there is a fair bit of research involved and sometimes it’s really tricky to nail down a particular fact (especially when you can’t get any response from a museum that isn’t within a reasonable distance). Maybe it’s because it’s more work for me to write historical fiction, or maybe because I feel as though I’ve found the genre that I really love to write, but I noticed yesterday that when I posted that chapter on my blog, my heart started to race a little. I got nervous.

What if you, my wonderful readers, don’t like it? What if there are mistakes? What if, what if, what if…?

Then I had an awesome, calming thought. If you don’t like it, you won’t read it. You’ll skip my Sunday posts for the next couple months while I post this story. Can’t please everyone all the time. If there are mistakes, hey, I haven’t gone through and completely edited everything yet because I’m still writing the novel. I’ll fix ‘em, whether they’re internal to the book or related to some research rock I’ve not yet turned over. Sure, I could wait until it’s done, but here’s the thing about self-publishing. I have to set my own deadlines. If I know that every Sunday, I have to post a chapter (whether or not you are among the folks who may want to read it), then every week I will write. I will edit. I will post and get over this nervousness that happens from putting my brain-baby out into the world.

Posting a chapter that may need improvement is my patronus charm. It’s my way of repelling the dementors of doubt. And then, I might have some Nutella, because as we all know, chocolate makes the cold feelings disappear.

“We’re nearing Cape Horn,” Thomas walked up to where William leaned over the rail along the deck of the Vance Thurgood.  “See the water?”

Pushing back a few strands of light brown hair—it’d grown longer since they set sail–William watched as tiny white caps cascaded over their crests like so many falling mountain peaks.  Nodding, he replied, “Maybe something interesting will happen for once.”  The ship had, at first, been a place of excitement for William.  He’d been vaguely familiar with ships all his life, growing up so near the seaport.  However, his father had never brought him aboard the Vance Thurgood, or any other whaling ship.  The deck wasn’t so different from most other ships, except for the tryworks, where the whale blubber would be cooked down into oil, if and when they managed to catch a whale.

Davits, or wooden arms, arched over the sides of the deck.  On many ships, these held smaller boats, and in the case of a whaling vessel that was no different.  The whalers would be lowered to the water using pulleys that hung from the davits.  So too would platforms be hung so that the crew could move alongside the ship during the cutting in.  William had once asked his father to describe the process.  “Imagine dozens of men,” his father had begun, “crawling all over these platforms like ants on a log newly rolled over, carving the whale into smaller pieces so as to get it on board the ship.  If you think harpoons are sharp, they’re nothing to the tools used for the cutting-in.”  He still had not witnessed a cutting-in, so had only the memory of his father’s description to slake his curiosity.

Below deck, the whaling ship had a forecastle, or fo’c’sle as it was commonly called, which was located toward the bow, and that’s where the crew ate every day and slept every night.  Upon first boarding the ship, William thought it seemed bigger than he’d imagined—now it seemed tight and cramped after six months at sea.  Moving aft below deck were the cabins, and yet another level below contained such things as the blubber room and ballast.  He’d thoroughly explored all the nooks and crannies of the ship where he had access, and the novelty of being at sea had worn off months ago.

The wind brought his thoughts back to the present as it caused ropes to snap taut against the masts.  He could hear the ship creak and groan against the rudder and idly wondered how much wind it would take to cause the rudder to snap.  The wind smelled saltier too, almost as though William had stuck his head into the waves but could still draw breath.  Even without the approaching wall of cloud-cover, he could tell a storm was indeed fast approaching.

“I know you think it was a waste of time coming along,” Thomas was saying, “but it will get more exciting once we get around to the Pacific and can start actually working.”

Scoffing in reply, William straightened.  He was taller than his friend by almost a head.  “Did you forget why we’re here?  Not for whales.  For my father.”

Thomas held his hands up in surrender and shook his head.  “I didn’t forget.  Quiet about it though.” He nodded aft, past William’s shoulder.

Turning, William spotted Tobias, the first mate.  He frequently looked down his perfectly straight nose at everyone else on board, and now was no exception.  He’d made William’s list of people to avoid months ago.  Sighing, William replied, “Fine.  Maybe we’ll at least hit a storm and then I’ll have some repairs to make.  I need to do something.”  He glanced at the sky.  The sun was still shining but he knew from his father’s tales that near to the Cape, the weather could change at the drop of a hat.  The last six months had been spent sailing south.  They’d stopped once in South Carolina for three days, where William had spent almost the entirety of his time at a local bethel, a sort of library where sailors could rest from their travels without worrying about engaging in less virtuous endeavors. Thomas suggested that they might glean some information if they went with the others to a tavern, but William wasn’t keen on wasting what little money he had on drink.

Instead, they’d written letters home to Catherine.  William’s missive was short as he’d been unwilling to admit to finding out nothing thus far regarding their father’s death.  Now, as they approached a stretch of water most sailors tried to avoid, he wished he’d found out something.  “What if our ship is taken and I die without ever finding out who killed my father?”  William turned back to the water, staring into the grey-blue and vast beyond.

“You’d be in no worse shape than you’re in now.  Besides, storms around these parts are likely.  Not much we can do to avoid them and I’d be surprised if we didn’t hit any at all.  But just stay below deck when you’re not on watch, Greenhand,” he teased.  Thomas had tried to teach his friend the finer points of navigating and steering the ship, but to no avail.  Opportunities for a cooper who served also as an oarsman were rare.

“That seems boring.”  William sighed even as the wind whipped up around him, filling the sails.  The ship lurched forward and he staggered a couple of steps.

“Johnson,” Tobias called, “looks like you still don’t have your sea legs!”  he chortled before continuing toward the bow.

I wish I could move like him aboard the ship.  I might, if I didn’t have to go below deck every time we reach rough waters.  He said nothing in return to Tobias, as usual.  He wasn’t here for an argument, William reminded himself, as he turned to descend the steep and narrow stairs that led below deck.

Stooping to walk the confining corridor, he made his way toward the fo’c’sle.  Walking much of the length of the ship didn’t take long, particularly when everyone else was already above deck.  His cabin, as he thought of it, was shared with four other men; Thomas, who slept on the bunk above his, and a man named Michael and another named Walter.  It wasn’t even a room, but rather a bank of bunks, separated by the rest of the fo’c’sle by a navy canvas curtain.  He barely spoke to the other two men, as he thus far knew little about who he might trust beyond his friend from home.

Thomas continually reminded him that he’d have to start talking to the others if he wanted to find out what happened to his father.  None of their cabin mates were old enough to have been on board then, though, so he doubted there was much sense in getting to be friends with them.  One of the harpooners was definitely old enough—his hair was so white that on a cloudy day, William almost couldn’t see it—and of course he knew Tobias and David, the first and second mates, had been aboard ten years ago when his father died.  Aside from them, that left only Captain Matthews that he knew of, but he supposed there might be others.  The crew itself was fairly small with only twenty-six men including the Captain and mates.

Talking with the crew members wasn’t easy.  As cooper, his work didn’t necessarily align with theirs so there wasn’t the same sense of camaraderie that Thomas had found in the last half year.  What was more was that coopers made almost as much as mates when it was time to split the ship’s profits.  For this voyage, he would take home roughly one fiftieth of the ship’s profits, whereas much of the crew were lucky to see half of that.  He had to find some way to close the distance between himself and the rest of the crew, but right now, all William could think about was the storm raging against the outside of the ship.

The sun was hidden now behind the growing clouds, but William could still tell that it was late afternoon.  Might as well try to sleep a bit before the watch bell rings.  Even if a storm hit, he doubted he would be excused from his usual shift.  He stretched out on his bunk–it always felt good to lie down after walking around below deck.  Even though his feet hung over the end, there wasn’t anything forcing him into a stooped position.  Thankfully, the deck below this one, where he would be constructing most of the barrels, was a bit roomier.

He stared at the bottom of Thomas’ bunk.  The blank, almost white space allowed his mind to wander.  He thought about his father and tried to picture him aboard the Vance Thurgood.  Upon coming aboard the ship, he’d asked for his father’s bunk, but another sailor already claimed it.  The bunks were all the same, except some featured striped mattresses while others were solid colors.  He’d hoped though that the connection to his father would strengthen his resolve.

William fidgeted, even as the ship moved around him with each rise and fall though the unease of the ocean had little to do with his restlessness.  “Six months at sea and I’ve learned nothing,” he muttered to no one in particular.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” a voice argued.

William sat up so quickly he cracked his head into the bottom of Thomas’ bunk.  He cussed, winced and pressed his palm to his forehead.  “It’s rude to sneak up on people,” he began to suggest before looking to see who it was.  “Oh, Michael…nevermind.  I…sorry.”

Michael was short and William often thought he must have been born to be aboard a ship, where he didn’t have to duck at all to get through the tight spaces.  His shoulders were nearly as broad as the corridor, which William thought rather fitting as winding the winch that lifted the anchor was typically left to him.  Michael shook his head and moved to sit on his own bunk.

“Aren’t you on watch?” William rubbed his head where he could already feel a bump forming.

Nodding, he answered, “I am, but Thomas asked me to come and check on you.  He said you seemed unsteady.  Well, more than usual.  He’s taking over part of my shift.”

Why didn’t Thomas come down himself?  Could it be that he was regretting bringing me aboard, as they’d thus far found out nothing surrounding a death that occurred so long ago?  Twelve years, to be exact.  “Ah.  Well, I’m not all that good at sailing.”

“Most of the lads aboard the Thurgood have been sailing since they could walk.”  He tends to exaggerate, William cautioned himself silently.  “At any rate,” Michael continued, “you wouldn’t want to learn how to bring a whale in, would you?  The Captain would never go for sending you out on a boat but…if you’re bored, you could help with the cutting in when we catch one.”  The ship rocked hard to port.  William rolled back and Michael had to brace himself to keep from falling off of his bunk.  “Then again, perhaps you’ll have repairs to make before long.”

William felt bad hoping that there’d be something to fix.  He’d had work once in the last half year, and it was just to strengthen a weak board.  Three nails had done the trick.  Three nails and ten minutes.  If they’d been catching whales, he’d be busy.  Before a whaling ship left the seaport, most of the barrels were taken apart for easier storage.  As whales were caught and blubber cooked down into oil, those barrels had to be put back together—and it would take a cooper’s skill to complete the task.  Likewise, water barrels would be used and so the blubber casks would replace them as the ship’s ballast throughout the journey, and the water barrels would be disassembled.  “Maybe you’re right.  I’ll ask the Captain about it after we get out of this storm.”

“It hasn’t even really hit yet,” Michael stood and offered a dark grin before he left.

Lying back down, William thought about what might be the best way to approach Captain Matthews.

Four years ago, when the Star Trek film franchise was relaunched, I was more than impressed with every facet of the end result. To me, Zachary Quinto stole the show of that film. Prior to Star Trek, I had seen him only as the character Sylar, on Heroes. Even though I am somewhat convinced that his major roles are connected directly to dramatic eyebrows (imagine if he and Mary Crawley from Downton Abbey co-starred in something?)

With Into Darkness, Quinto and the entire returning cast were, as expected, fantastic–but in my opinion, Benedict Cumberbatch stole the show this time around as Khan (it isn’t a spoiler when it has been talked about on the internet since the teaser trailer).

Accustomed as I am to seeing Cumberbatch play Sherlock Holmes, it was no stretch of the imagination to see him play a genius. However, it was interesting to watch him play an antagonist. Of course, I did not doubt his ability to act, but I think he deserves kudos for so successfully stepping into a role and allowing the audience to identify–to sympathize–with Khan’s character while at the same time, hoping he will not succeed.

To focus solely on Cumberbatch’s performance would be unfair to the entire cast, who all performed to a new level. This cast has the ability to evoke the original cast without being lost in their shadows.

The film itself is exciting to watch. With a perfect balance of tension, and a soundtrack that proved emotive and engaging in the film released four years ago, Into Darkness had me sitting at the edge of my seat more than once. To do this in a film that follows the mold of “the hero will conquer” shows a poignancy from every team and individual involved in the filmmaking process.

Expect some comedy, impressive computer graphics, and to boldly go where…well, others have been there, but this newer crew is still going there, and they are doing so boldly. For the price of movie admission, you can boldly go with them.

I love movies. I generally give them higher ratings than many others–not because I am incapable of panning a movie–because I go to a movie with realistic expectations. I will never expect an X-Men movie to contend on the same psychological level as Inception, for example. I try to rate each movie on its own merits, and with realistic expectations. That said, I, personally, thoroughly enjoyed it. I give it 5 out of 5 stars.

My prediction is that this film will be the top film of the summer (a bold claim in May, I know).

“Who can that be?” Today’s newspaper lay half folded across William Johnson’s knees. He’d been combing through its pages for work at a cooperage near Fishtown; his apprenticeship had ended eight days prior, and he could not keep working so close to his master’s shop. The visitor rapped knuckles against the wood again, the silence between each knock shorter, more urgent.

Standing, he folded the paper and settled it upon a table beside the chair. Once his father’s chair, the soft, supple leather was lined with thin cracks like an aged face. William thought of his father as he walked out of the parlor and into the foyer. They shared the same first name, but his father had been a whaler, and his face lined not with age but from years of wind, the spray of the sea and smiling. William remembered his father often smiling until the corners of his eyes crinkled. Other differences in their appearance were minor: William wore his hair long, and kept it tied back whereas his father’s hair was cropped short, often uneven from his cutting it himself. Everyone in the family had dark hair and light eyes, but William was the only one with hazel eyes.

Squeezing the latch, he pulled the door open. “Thomas,” he smiled, “come to see Catherine, hm?”

“You, actually.” Thomas walked through the doorway. “If I may.” William noticed his friend wringing his hands, and the crease of his brow. Thomas was short, but carried himself as though he was the tallest man in the room—his back was always perfectly straight and he never craned his neck to look at anyone taller than himself. Some thought this gave him an angry expression but after so many years of friendship, William knew better.

“Of course. What’s happened?” Stepping aside, William offered to take his friend’s coat but his friend seemed disinclined to part with it, leaving him to let his hands drop to his sides.

“I’m here about your father.” Thomas did not budge from his spot in the foyer, and pushed his hands into his pockets. When William did not answer, he continued. “He was murdered.”

A sharp tone hummed in his ears. William wasn’t sure if he heard his friend correctly. His eyes focused on the striped wallpaper beyond Thomas’ right shoulder as he remembered the day, nearly ten years ago, that Captain Matthews stood in this very spot to tell his mother about his father’s death. He and Catherine had spied the scene from their hiding place in the parlor doorway halfway down the foyer corridor. “No, you must have it wrong,” he breathed out, wiping the fresh perspiration from his forehead. “My father died at sea. Captain Mathews said as much himself; he’s a friend of our family’s and wouldn’t lie about such a thing.”

“But he didn’t say how he died. Catherine has told me this before, that your family never really knew the reason. Doesn’t look good, does it, murder aboard his ship? How can you be sure that—”

“You’re wrong, Thomas. Captain Matthews wouldn’t keep it from us if my father had been murdered. Catherine and my mother are upstairs. Perhaps you should leave if you don’t plan on visiting with my sister.”

Thomas shook his head. “I cannot stay now. I’m signing up for Matthews’ ship, the Vance Thurgood. Why don’t you come with me?”

“I’m no whaler.”

“I know. But you’re a cooper now, and a ship always needs a cooper.”

“I think you’d better go now, Thomas.” William reached in front of his friend to open the door, in no mood now to entertain a guest, even if it was his brother-in-law to be. Before Thomas could leave, he asked one more question. “Why didn’t you tell Catherine?”

“I thought I’d speak to you first about it, to see if you ever had any suspicion that your father’s death might have been…something more. I will tell her, unless you want to.”

“No, don’t tell her. It’ll only upset her and besides, if anyone tells her it ought to be me.” Thomas opened his mouth, presumably to protest, but William just shook his head and asked him to come back tomorrow. “I need to think.” He stood at the open door, thinking about the newspaper folded over the arm of his father’s chair. He recalled in his mind’s eye the tiny section listing work needed in various areas of Connecticut.

He thought about his father. Is it better to seek the truth, or let my father’s spirit rest? If he died, William knew he would want someone to seek justice on his behalf…but he also knew that had there been a murder at sea, it was the Captain’s job, ultimately, to seek justice. Was it possible that Captain Matthews did not know the truth…or perhaps he was hiding it? This notion set William on edge. His stomach churned. His heart beat hard against his ribcage. A moment passed before he realized he was clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. William forced a deep breath and then shut the door before going upstairs to sleep.

Over breakfast in the dining room the next morning, William stood and cleared his throat. Both his sister and mother looked up from their plates. “I have news,” he began, standing from his chair at the head of the table. He glanced toward the wall behind his mother, where a painting depicted the roiling sea beneath a darkening sky. His eyes darted across the room to a portrait of his father and he wished he was making this announcement in a different room. He couldn’t decide whether it looked as though the smooth brush strokes which described his father’s face carried displeasure or concern, or whether he was simply imagining it. So many times, as a boy, he’d looked upon that portrait as though it were his father, here in the flesh. In the man’s long absences, he sometimes found himself whispering pleas for advice at the painting.

“What is it, William?” his mother asked, having turned back to her breakfast in the wake of his hesitation. Ella Johnson was a pale and drawn woman, at least these days. Illness came and went as frequently as the rain, and he worried that his decision might further weaken her, but he couldn’t simply disappear without an explanation.

“I am joining the crew of the Vance Thurgood as their cooper for the next trip out.” Silence met his proclamation, growing heavier with each passing second. The clock in the corner behind him ticked and tocked, and he could hear his own blood rushing in his ears. Catherine was the first to voice her disapproval.

“No, you cannot. You cannot leave us for so long, William. And not on that ship.” She pushed her chestnut-colored hair over one shoulder. Typically she wore it in a loose bun but today it was braided. William traced the contours of the plait with his eyes; it was easier to do that than to look at her eyes, which were usually a soft blue but this morning, following his announcement, had cooled until they were like shards of ice.

His mother, Ella, said nothing, though her eyes filled with tears. “We need the money,” William stated quietly and evenly. “And I need work.”

Catherine stood so quickly that her water glass tipped, spilling a miniature ocean across the table. She hastened to mop up the spill with her napkin, glaring up at him. “Go to Stonington for work, if you must.”

“There’s no work for me in Stonington. Besides which, work is not my only compelling reason to go.” William sat back down. Catherine is getting too agitated about this, he worried. He needed her to calm down, for the sake of their mother at least.

Ella finally spoke. “What other reason can there be? First I lose your father aboard that ship—will you be next? I say to you, William, if you board that vessel I will not speak to you again.” Threatening a lifetime of not speaking had always been Ella’s last resort tactic to encourage her children into compliance. This method always worked in the past.

Not today, William decided. “Father was murdered aboard that ship and I intend to find out who was responsible. Thomas came here yesterday and we both plan to sail on that ship—”

“No!” Catherine’s interruption stopped her brother. “I will not permit both you and he to go aboard that ship. Years, William, years. He and I intend to marry in June. Besides, this is ridiculous. Wherever did you get the notion that Father was murdered? And why wouldn’t Thomas not come to see me? Tell me himself?”

“Thomas overheard it. He didn’t tell you because I asked him not to.”

“William Johnson, you had no right!” she threw the wet napkin down at his feet.
He frowned. “Look, I am going; you don’t have to believe me but you won’t change my mind. Thomas went to sign up this morning—I expect he’ll be calling soon to tell you.” He turned toward Ella. “Mother, I am certain you will speak to me again. I will be gone long enough for you to forgive me.” He tried to catch her eye, but Ella looked away.

“Father died long ago, William. Let him rest.” Catherine pushed away from the table and strode out of the dining room. Ella left more quietly and soon William sat alone with his plate. He did the only thing he could think to do, which was to eat; it might be a long while before so sumptuous a meal was laid before him. The Vance Thurgood was to sail on the following morning’s tide. After he finished eating breakfast, William picked up Catherine’s chair and the napkin before he went to sit in his father’s old chair.

The leather was smooth under his fingers; he couldn’t even feel the cracks he could see. “How you must have longed to sit here again,” he murmured. “How you must have thought you someday would. I will find out how you died, and if you were murdered, I will find your killer, Father. I swear it.”

Overall, I would say this movie is a 4/5. It was interesting watching, because I haven’t read the book or seen a version since I was in high school–so it’s been at least twelve years. I’d forgotten how much I loathe Daisy as a person (though from a literary sense, she’s a well developed, well-written character). I’m going to break this review into discussing the directing, acting, writing and atmosphere.

Directing

Very identifiable as one of Lurhmann’s films, Gatsby has the same zooming views, the same color saturation, the same overall feel of juxtaposing a bombardment of the senses with muted quiet. In that sense, the film felt very familiar. I thought also that his style of directing and the cinematography employed in the making of this film fit well with the 1920′s in America, and in particular, New York City. The promise of an economical boom, buffered before and after by the travesty of war and the Great Depression. Whether or not this was intentional, I’m not sure, but it would be all to easy to connect the dots.

Acting

It needs to be said, even though it’s an assumption I often feel safe making. Leonardo DiCaprio was amazing. I remember when I first saw the trailer for this year’s release of the movie and thought to myself, They got someone great to play Gatsby. At least there’s that. I was a bit cynical because I remember adoring the book so much in high school, and to me, Robert Redford also played a perfect Gatsby. It’s a big role, and definitely one DiCaprio can handle. Truthfully, everyone was great. I’m not usually a big fan of Tobey Maguire, but he wasn’t too bad. I’m having trouble thinking who would have made a better Nick but am coming up short at the moment, so I will leave you with my impression of him which was better than expected. Carey Mulligan was fantastic as Daisy–she very much became her on screen.

Writing

The movie was a tad long. At nearly two and a half hours, I wished sometimes it had picked up the pace. There were many moments spent filming curtains flowing in the wind, or dead leaves blowing through a door. I understand that film deserves an artistic quality but perhaps it would not have felt so superfluous if the writing had kept things at a tighter pace. It’s interesting–it’s the exact same length (144 minutes) as the Robert Redford version, yet I didn’t feel as though that was drawn out. It’s for this reason that I’m convinced the writing might have been a little stronger.

Atmosphere

The “Roaring Twenties” certainly roared. The 1920′s were so defined by the fashion, music, dance and art deco design that it is one of the most, in my opinion, instantly recognizable decades in American history. This movie was spot on in almost all things…what felt out of place was about 40% of the music. I know what the filmmakers were trying to do. It worked in Luhrmann’s past films, but it didn’t seem to work too well here. I know that the music helped bring to light the still-rampant racism, and I know it was Luhrmann’s typical modern music take on the past, but in most instances it just felt out of time and therefore was jarring. The one piece that worked was Beyonce’s Crazy in Love, because it was remixed to sound at least a tiny bit like the music being produced in the 1920′s.

Overall, I think it was worth going to see. It was enjoyable, vivid, and captivating. I hope it inspires people to go and read the book, as in most cases (and this is no exception), the book is certainly superior…but this was a good two and a half hours.

However, the price to pay for over doing it is typically a muscular injury. That, in and of itself, is enough to keep myself from doing my usual 30-60 minute workout. However, I find that every few hours I have to get up and move. I do a combination. I practice my horse stance (because I can picture my friend insisting I balance quarters on my knees). The fact of the matter is, to be completely at rest…is a very difficult thing.

Still, some rest is better than none. I try to keep myself busy in other ways…writing, reading, playing piano…in general, I find it’s a good practice to have several hobbies and tasks in waiting so that my mind does not instantly turn to doing more sit ups or going for a jog. What do you do to keep busy on your rest day so that you don’t accidentally give in to working out?

I have to say, I knew I would love this movie. Of all the superheroes in the Marvel and DC universes, Iron Man has always been my favorite. Yes, he’s a womanizer. Heck, he’s been dumbed down these days–in the original comics he was still a real jerk. But he’s a genius (yes, so is Bruce Banner, and Bruce Wayne isn’t too dumb either, I digress…) and I think his flaws–his ego, for one–is something everyone can relate to. Not everyone has raging out-of-control bursts of anger where they turn into a giant green dude. Not everyone has the funds to cruise around in Batman’s transportation devices.

But Iron Man–Tony Stark–shows his genius even in moments when he has very little to work with. Iron Man could come from anyone who has the smarts Stark has. This movie recalled that element from the first of this series starring Robert Downey Jr. as Stark. In Iron Man, he builds the first suit out of very rudimentary materials, toting around a car battery to keep the make-shift arc reactor (mini me) running. In Iron Man 3, he is once more forced to build something out of what anyone else would see as a pile of random junk from a local hardware store. (Sorry hardware stores, I don’t think your goods are junk, really.)

Continuing this review involves spoilers, so only read on if you already saw it or really want to know…

Stark is once more forced to work almost from the ground up. He makes mistakes–and many of them. In fact, he opens the movie by telling us that this story is about the demons he created. He says we all have moments where we create demons. Okay, maybe the demons created by the average Joe don’t go crazy and start turning people into radioactive, regenerating time bombs who can breathe fire, but hey, as Stark’s very personality reminds us, everyone needs a hobby. However, the movie starting by telling us he basically screwed up is a great hook, because we know he’s a superhero. We know it’s going to come full circle (especially because this is the 3rd movie), and we want him to tell us–no, show us how. His panic attacks further emphasize the fact that yeah, he’s just human.

What else did I love about this movie? All the different iterations of the Iron Man suit. They all serve a slightly modified function, and I loved that each time Stark stepped (or jumped, fell, leaped, slid) into a new suit, he had different tools he could rely upon to wreak havoc on the bad guys. I liked that Pepper Potts finally got to kick some butt–and boy, did she ever! She may not be a superhero star like the rest of the Avengers, but if she hadn’t been so amazing at the beginning and end of the movie, there would be no more Tony Stark. No more Iron Man.

But thankfully, Iron Man will return. (If you didn’t stay through the credits, by the way, go back and see it again–it’s worth it!)

One of the biggest flaws (and I’m still not sure if this is a writing oversight or one of Tony’s I’m human moments, but the War Machine/Iron Patriot suit seems to be happily occupied and operated by just about anyone. I recall in the first movie that Stark had a bit of trouble initially learning how to control his suit. Yet the AIM fellows can just hop right in War Machine and fly it around. Now, maybe they’re controlling War Machine remotely–they must be when the President is inside it–but even so. Then there’s the matter of Jarvis. Can’t he just, I don’t know, take over and shut down War Machine if anyone but Rhodes is in control? This seems like it’d be a valuable failsafe.

As for the movie production itself, brilliant all around. I loved the cinematography. The acting was, as always, fantastic. Ben Kingsley is such a good actor but I was completely surprised to find that the Mandarin was just a character, though the movie set up from the beginning that Guy Pearce’s character (Killian) was going to be the main baddie. However, until I knew the Madarin was a farce, I thought maybe it’d be like the Scarecrow was in Batman–just a lackey who thought he was more important than he was. Then Killian breathed fire (great scene there with him and Rhodes). Loved the writing in general–little comic asides didn’t just belong to Stark in this film, but it wasn’t overdone either.

And of course, Stan Lee’s cameo is always fun to see. Go see Iron Man 3 if you haven’t already. It’s worth it–I’d give it 4.7/5 stars. That’s right, I’m using decimals.