As techno-fascist movies go, this is a good one: a well-paced narrative, above average acting for this genre, and an at times distinctive, stylish, visually witty tone. Favreau, making the most of Robert Downey Junior’s trademark insouciant, self-deprecating acting style, tongue-in-cheeks the preposterous goings on well enough to induce you to let your credulity silence your scepticism. He sets up an interesting American, technology-based myth that actually carries you along at first to wonder how will this work…..; how would it be if……; what would happen when…… etc. He then proceeds to demolish the resonance of this - what if a man could fly……, could not be harmed……, by turning these questions of the imagination into a tedious, preposterous technical question of exactly how do you make an Iron Man suit?

In this he demonstrates a total misunderstanding of the magic of the MARVEL comic genre from which his characters and his story come. It’s what the comic book hero does with his powers that matters to the avid reader; he’ll (and it usually is a he) readily accept any old tosh about how his hero became invincible (almost) in favour of all the exciting things that ensue when he gets to use them. Including of course the classic genre problem of what is his one weakness and how does he overcome it? The Kryptonite Factor.

The first half hour set up is interesting, allowing Downey to luxuriate in an OTT portrayal of an arrogant, ironic, super-smart technological whizz-kid following in Dad’s footsteps to provide through Stark Industries, the best technological weapons-of-war systems on the killing market. Personally demonstrating his new mountain-busting missile, the Jericho, in the Afghan desert, ‘Tony’ (!) offers to the philosophy that a “good weapon is one you never have to use” his alternative which is a “weapon you only ever have to use once.” This, he ironically observes is that way that America does things and the way it always will. A lesson I’m sure not lost on the tens of thousands of survivors of Hiroshima: though the older surviving citizens of Nagasaki might demur.

Stark’s convoy is then attacked and he is imprisoned in a cave by what look like Arabs, are dressed like Arabs, but behave more like freelance warlords than fundamentalist Taliban ‘freedom’ fighters. Moral gearbox set in neutral from the get-go. (If the Americans want to get out of Afghanistan they should just do bilateral deals with the Warlords with whom they have so much in common and then rack up ongoing profits with Stark Industry-type supplies without limit).

Mysteriously imprisoned with him in his cave is a German-Jewish (some of the irony is unwitting methinks) boffin type, Yinsen, (Shaun Taub) who it appears has had to replace Stark’s irreparably damaged heart-function with a kind of retro-heart pacemaker set into his chest looking like a 1940’s telephone dial and glowing with ‘life’ courtesy of a car battery that powers it. The taciturn leader of the Arab band Raza (Faran Tahir) is of course intelligent, educated and given to long glazed stares into the distance – as if waiting for Omar Sharif to come into focus through a mirage riding a camel. Raza wants Stark to build him his own Jericho missile from captured parts. Something to do with surpassing Alexander the Great. Nothing OTT there then.

With Yinsen helping, Stark builds instead of a missile, a robotic, weaponised suit, powered by one of the stock all-powerful gizmos beloved of the comics books – here called the ‘arc-generator’ smelted down it seems from cannibalised bits of missile parts. Donning the suit, the invincible Iron Man escapes with much mayhem. Finally he lifts off with his rocket powered iron ski-boots into a failed sub-orbital flight. What goes up soon comes down, Alan Shepherd eat your heart out. Iron Man Mark I smashes to pieces in the desert leaving Stark exposed to the sun like a peeled lobster.

This is all pretty good fun, the build up to Iron Man’s first appearance, like Spielberg’s shark, quite tense and his first action quite exciting. Once back in the US, we soon know Stark is in trouble when he says he has sold his last missile. Leaving partner Obadiah Stane (Jeff Bridges), what a great name – but he must be dodgy, to handle the corporate rumblings of this moral exocet. Our Tony then buries himself away to make super-suit II with only his lanky Girl Friday, Pepper Pots (Gwyneth Paltrow) to help him: no I’m not kidding – women are definitely a decorative sub-species in the comic-book firmament and silly names come as standard. In what increasingly begins to look like an Audi assembly line (because they get great product placement throughout the movie), Stark builds the ultimate ‘designer’ suit – flies, it not them, impregnable and you don’t even have to dry clean it or wear a tie. Our beautifully tempered, powered-dressing hero then joins the pantheon of American god-heroes: Super, Spider and Bat – Men etc. Iron Man does a bit of Stark stock-clearance back in Afghanistan but has to overcome some home-based skulduggery to give the movie an action-packed finish which pits two Iron Men against each other while Pepper potters around being first pretty, then useful, and finally pretty useful.

By the end Favreau has virtually thrown everything away. He has weaponised myth: sacrificed its resonance and mystery on the altar of techno-worship. Power for its own sake: not for what you can do with it. Stark’s entrepreneurial cobbling something together in his cave-garage out back has given way to a multi-billionaire’s home-based, fully-automated car assembly line. Downey has some fun dialogue with his robotic Santa’s little helpers but the invention is now a product – as shiny, glittery and anonymous as an executive toy. People disappear and techno-worship takes over. The final confrontation is a cross between a Citroen advert of robotic transformation and a computer game. In fact the techno-fascist undertones of this movie are also echoed by the other Citroen advert going the rounds at the moment; the weirdly tasteless one with vaguely 3rd Reich symbolism where the proud punch-line is “the Citroen C6 unmistakably German….made in France.” They’d better concrete over De Gaulle’s grave or he’ll be back after someone’s blood.

So in the end Favreau’s Iron Man loses his irony. And therefore most of his interest. Even Downey’s mordant, self-deprecating self-mocking schtick can’t penetrate an impermeable titanium coffin. Paltrow’s not bad with nothing much to work with – adds a little bit of leggy class to a token woman role. Downey is excellent until his character is gradually buried alive in an articulated Iron Lung. Favreau has reversed the alchemist’s search – he has turned a little bit of gold into a pile of base metal. It glitters – but baby it ain’t gold. Not bad – but a chance missed.


<Added>

...and riding a camel...

dangle me modifiers.

Z