I liked Thor. Despite a distinct lack of rocket hands and Robert Downey chewing scenery, all things considered, it’s probably a better film than the first Iron Man (which, let’s face it, was a little Entourage-y at times). And yet, something about it kept me from being much excited to write my review. In fact, I made this entire Platoon poster with a Hyrax out of boredom before I’d written my first paragraph.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s a fun movie. The acting is solid all the way through (Chris Hemsworth and Tom Hiddleston — Loki — are pleasant discoveries, and neither Anthony Hopkins nor Natalie Portman dishonor their pedigrees). Kenneth Branagh proves his Shakespeare experience surprisingly applicable to a film about a big blonde guy whacking sh*t with a hammer, seamlessly mixing goofy, often slapsticky humor with age-old conflicts between brothers, and fathers and sons, and of course, epic speeches and hubris leading to downfall. The film begins in Asgard, where three of the evil Ice Giants (couldn’t have thought up a less on-the-nose name, there, guys?) have infiltrated a sacred Asgardian hall through some kind through a secret portal, in order to steal back some magic box full of blue fog that the Asgardians took after defeating them in a long war (the one where Odin lost his eye). But before the Ice Giants can accomplish much, the Asgardians’ giant chrome Destroyer blows them all to f*ck WITH A BEAM OF HELLFIRE FROM ITS FACE (pretty baller, as security systems go). When the Asgardians discover what happened, newly-crowned Prince Thor gets pissed, demanding to go to Planet Ice Giant and hammer some frozen dicks in retaliation. Odin (Hopkins) says no — “The Destroyer did its job, the invaders met their fate, nothing else is required.”
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