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Sydney Morning Herald
01-08-2025
- Entertainment
- Sydney Morning Herald
I'm no he-man, but I'm more useful than those muscly posers any day
I haven't entered a gym since the last millennium, when an instructor took my shilling and promised to turn me into a he-man. At least, I thought he said 'he-man'. He might have said 'human'. Anyway, I got no closer to becoming a he-man than I did to becoming emperor of China. This failure has rankled. And I blame him. Lately, gyms have emigrated from shopping centres and high streets to light industrial zones alongside car wreckers, chemical storage facilities and bikie HQs. You see muscled fellows wearing wisp singlets plodding along the backstreets like the strongest, simplest superhero in any franchise – the Hulk, the Thing – the type of erratic champion needing close and constant instruction from the mastermind of the gang lest he accidentally break North America. A whiff of the underworld accompanies bodybuilding for me. Is it the thuggishness muscle implies? The fact it can be turned so readily to standover work? Or the fact bikies and crime bosses have recently got so massive? Watching a cop trying to cuff a Coffin Cheater these days is like watching a toddler attempt a Rubik's Cube. Maybe muscle gym membership should come with an ankle tracker. One of those devices parolees wear so they can't slip down to the pub on Tuesday arvo, slurp daytime beers and slide back into the life. You want the Gold Class membership that comes with caramel flavoured 'protein shakes'? OK, put this anklet on and surrender your passport. On the street I smile at bodybuilders for the same reason I smile at pastors, nuns, Hare Krishnas and Goths – just to be nice, to affirm they have a right to belief, or cosplay, or some mix of the two. It seems mean not to, like shouting 'rhubarb' in a theatre. The most frightening car crash I was ever in involved a driver from a family of famous hotheads. It was early morning, and I was a sleep-addled passenger when this fool, hollering along with one of Joe Strummer's insurrectionist ditties, went off the road and down an embankment, rolling his Renault a couple of times. I was thrashed by a maelstrom of his bric-a-brac: mixtapes, Coke cans, cigarette lighters, footy boots, an oboe, a ping pong paddle… When the death throes of the T14 finally silenced, the driver was lying on top of me in a blizzard of Wonderbra flyers he'd been paid to box-drop but hadn't. 'These bras seem reasonably priced,' I said. 'Now get off me.' We climbed up and opened the driver's door like submariners emerging from the deep, from a mission, from a war … into a day of peace, a day we didn't deserve. Loading And this is where my prejudice against muscle hounds really took flight. We had crashed outside a gym, an outer-suburban tilt-slab bunker veneered with dark glass. On hearing the roar of the crash a dozen or so simulacrum Schwarzeneggers strode outside and began circumnavigating the wreck asking fatheaded questions and pocketing Wonderbra flyers. They were a welcome sight to us. These lads, these eager behemoths, would soon right our car. Except … they were not eager at all. It turns out extreme muscle is purely aesthetic, a type of beauty pageant, not to be mistaken as useful, not a tool that might be employed in any nine-to-five capacity. These Hercules types (as often stuck to mirrors as blowies to flypaper) are objets d'art, not beasts of burden. None will dig a hole for fear of the bulging disc and the proletarian ignominy involved. None will cart a hay bale unless applauded. None will climb a ladder, being so dangerously top-heavy.
The Age
01-08-2025
- Entertainment
- The Age
I'm no he-man, but I'm more useful than those muscly posers any day
I haven't entered a gym since the last millennium, when an instructor took my shilling and promised to turn me into a he-man. At least, I thought he said 'he-man'. He might have said 'human'. Anyway, I got no closer to becoming a he-man than I did to becoming emperor of China. This failure has rankled. And I blame him. Lately, gyms have emigrated from shopping centres and high streets to light industrial zones alongside car wreckers, chemical storage facilities and bikie HQs. You see muscled fellows wearing wisp singlets plodding along the backstreets like the strongest, simplest superhero in any franchise – the Hulk, the Thing – the type of erratic champion needing close and constant instruction from the mastermind of the gang lest he accidentally break North America. A whiff of the underworld accompanies bodybuilding for me. Is it the thuggishness muscle implies? The fact it can be turned so readily to standover work? Or the fact bikies and crime bosses have recently got so massive? Watching a cop trying to cuff a Coffin Cheater these days is like watching a toddler attempt a Rubik's Cube. Maybe muscle gym membership should come with an ankle tracker. One of those devices parolees wear so they can't slip down to the pub on Tuesday arvo, slurp daytime beers and slide back into the life. You want the Gold Class membership that comes with caramel flavoured 'protein shakes'? OK, put this anklet on and surrender your passport. On the street I smile at bodybuilders for the same reason I smile at pastors, nuns, Hare Krishnas and Goths – just to be nice, to affirm they have a right to belief, or cosplay, or some mix of the two. It seems mean not to, like shouting 'rhubarb' in a theatre. The most frightening car crash I was ever in involved a driver from a family of famous hotheads. It was early morning, and I was a sleep-addled passenger when this fool, hollering along with one of Joe Strummer's insurrectionist ditties, went off the road and down an embankment, rolling his Renault a couple of times. I was thrashed by a maelstrom of his bric-a-brac: mixtapes, Coke cans, cigarette lighters, footy boots, an oboe, a ping pong paddle… When the death throes of the T14 finally silenced, the driver was lying on top of me in a blizzard of Wonderbra flyers he'd been paid to box-drop but hadn't. 'These bras seem reasonably priced,' I said. 'Now get off me.' We climbed up and opened the driver's door like submariners emerging from the deep, from a mission, from a war … into a day of peace, a day we didn't deserve. Loading And this is where my prejudice against muscle hounds really took flight. We had crashed outside a gym, an outer-suburban tilt-slab bunker veneered with dark glass. On hearing the roar of the crash a dozen or so simulacrum Schwarzeneggers strode outside and began circumnavigating the wreck asking fatheaded questions and pocketing Wonderbra flyers. They were a welcome sight to us. These lads, these eager behemoths, would soon right our car. Except … they were not eager at all. It turns out extreme muscle is purely aesthetic, a type of beauty pageant, not to be mistaken as useful, not a tool that might be employed in any nine-to-five capacity. These Hercules types (as often stuck to mirrors as blowies to flypaper) are objets d'art, not beasts of burden. None will dig a hole for fear of the bulging disc and the proletarian ignominy involved. None will cart a hay bale unless applauded. None will climb a ladder, being so dangerously top-heavy.
Toronto Sun
23-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Toronto Sun
REVIEW: Finally, the Fantastic Four get the movie they (and we) deserve
Published Jul 23, 2025 • 3 minute read From left, Ebon Moss-Bachrach as Ben Grimm/the Thing, Vanessa Kirby as Sue Storm/Invisible Woman, Pedro Pascal as Reed Richards/Mister Fantastic and Joseph Quinn as Johnny Storm/Human Torch. Photo by Jay Maidment / 20th Century Studios/Marvel Studios Reviews and recommendations are unbiased and products are independently selected. Postmedia may earn an affiliate commission from purchases made through links on this page. Flame on! Buoyant, bracing and, most shocking of all, brief, 'The Fantastic Four: First Steps' represents a quantum leap of ship-righting. Everything about this amiable adventure – its space-age idiom, its sub-two-hour footprint, its emphasis on a literal nuclear family of heroes – has been cannily calibrated to dispel the air of listlessness that's engulfed the Marvel Cinematic Universe in recent years. This advertisement has not loaded yet, but your article continues below. THIS CONTENT IS RESERVED FOR SUBSCRIBERS ONLY Subscribe now to read the latest news in your city and across Canada. Unlimited online access to articles from across Canada with one account. Get exclusive access to the Toronto Sun ePaper, an electronic replica of the print edition that you can share, download and comment on. Enjoy insights and behind-the-scenes analysis from our award-winning journalists. Support local journalists and the next generation of journalists. Daily puzzles including the New York Times Crossword. SUBSCRIBE TO UNLOCK MORE ARTICLES Subscribe now to read the latest news in your city and across Canada. Unlimited online access to articles from across Canada with one account. Get exclusive access to the Toronto Sun ePaper, an electronic replica of the print edition that you can share, download and comment on. Enjoy insights and behind-the-scenes analysis from our award-winning journalists. Support local journalists and the next generation of journalists. Daily puzzles including the New York Times Crossword. REGISTER / SIGN IN TO UNLOCK MORE ARTICLES Create an account or sign in to continue with your reading experience. Access articles from across Canada with one account. Share your thoughts and join the conversation in the comments. Enjoy additional articles per month. Get email updates from your favourite authors. THIS ARTICLE IS FREE TO READ REGISTER TO UNLOCK. Create an account or sign in to continue with your reading experience. Access articles from across Canada with one account Share your thoughts and join the conversation in the comments Enjoy additional articles per month Get email updates from your favourite authors Don't have an account? Create Account The difficulties adapting the First Family of Marvel Comics go back further than that. Josh Trank's 2015 'Fantastic Four' flamed out despite the presence of Michael B. Jordan as Johnny 'The Human Torch' Storm. Tim Story's 2005 'Fantastic Four' and its 2007 sequel both had Chris Evans playing that physiological hothead, but were too forgettable to disqualify him from suiting up as Captain America later. Most lurid of all was the early '90s 'The Fantastic Four' (italics mine) – rushed to completion by schlock auteur Roger Corman on an austerity budget of $1 million just so producer Bernd Eichinger could hang onto the rights. Those prior iterations hail from a more innocent age of corporate hegemony, before the acquisition of both Marvel and Fox – holder of the Fantastic Four and X-Men movie licences – by Disney, whose appetites rival those of the new film's major threat, the giant purple planet-eater Galactus. True to creators Stan Lee and Jack Kirby's crazypants vision, this deity's genocidal pig-out is preceded by a visit to our doomed planet from his emcee and enforcer, the Silver Surfer. (Julia Garner plays the surfer in 'First Steps,' and despite being coated in digital chrome, she conveys palpable melancholy.) Your noon-hour look at what's happening in Toronto and beyond. By signing up you consent to receive the above newsletter from Postmedia Network Inc. Please try again This advertisement has not loaded yet, but your article continues below. After opening in media res via a TV special celebrating the Fantastic Four's many victories, 'First Steps' quickly puts the family in family film, with Vanessa Kirby's Sue Storm contemplating a home pregnancy test – one of the more prosaic technological anachronisms in this alternate early 1960s, which also has flying cars and faster-than-light travel. 'Nothing will change,' says her spouse, Reed 'Mr. Fantastic' Richards (the ubiquitous but still welcome Pedro Pascal), because even super-geniuses can be hella dumb. That's our movie: What to Expect When You're Expecting a Violet, Planet-Devouring God. That Sue is in a family way doesn't stop her from blasting off with her family to negotiate with and/or defeat Galactus (voiced by Ralph Ineson), who demands a biblical tribute. Unwilling to pay up, the Fantastic Four get to work on Plan B, which involves uniting every government on Earth in a coordinated defense requiring global power conservation. (One amusing effect of the brownout is that the Thing can't shave his granite face.) That all this unfolds in just a few brisk scenes with nary a hint of dissent is indicative of the dramatic opportunities that get overlooked when storytellers are bent on efficiency. Still, in an era when blockbuster run times have stretched out longer than Mr. Fantastic's rubbery limbs, it's a refreshing change. This advertisement has not loaded yet, but your article continues below. Clearly, Marvel and DC have been reading the same feedback cards. Like the equally pithy new 'Superman,' 'First Steps' eschews its heroes' oft-told origin and drops us into a world where Reed, Sue, her brother Johnny and gentle-geologic-giant Ben 'the Thing' Grimm are already beloved public figures. The director is Matt Shakman, who helmed the memorable MCU streaming series 'WandaVision,' where each episode was a pastiche of a distinct era of television. I am duty-bound to tell you 'First Steps' is set on Earth-828, a dimension removed from all the other Marvel heroes – for now, anyway. Maybe that's the reason cinematographer Jess Hall and production designer Kasra Farahani have been permitted to give 'First Steps' a distinct retro-futuristic look that escapes the house-style visual tedium of the MCU. Its off-world middle act evokes the cosmic majesty of Christopher Nolan's 'Interstellar' more than the screensavery muck of prior spacefaring Marvel films. This advertisement has not loaded yet, but your article continues below. Equally remarkable is that no member of the cast is ever dwarfed by the extinction-level machinations around them. Pascal and Kirby, in particular, tuck into the nuances of their partnership in ways seldom seen in these films. Even the minor players – Paul Walter Hauser's comic Mole Man, Natasha Lyonne as a Hebrew schoolteacher drawn to the canonically Jewish Mr. Grimm despite his igneous orange bod – leave us wanting more. — Three stars. Rated PG-13. At area theatres. Superhero action, a zero-gravity childbirth sequence, mild cussing. 118 minutes. Rating guide: Four stars masterpiece, three stars very good, two stars OK, one star poor, no stars waste of time. Golf Canada Toronto & GTA Ontario World
