Review: Thunderbolts*

[The following review contains MINOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

As far as the art of adaptation goes, Thunderbolts* manages to find legitimately creative solutions to some rather significant narrative challenges. It borrows its title—and very little else—from a Kurt Busiek comic series in which the aptly named Masters of Evil masquerade as a new team of superheroes, using good public relations as a shield to obfuscate their true nefarious purposes (until several members discover that they prefer altruism, anyway). Obviously, this premise simply cannot be replicated within the context of the MCU, which features relatively few recurring antagonists; in conventional Hollywood blockbusters, after all, the bad guy is supposed to die at the end—that’s just an established rule of the medium. Its story instead more closely resembles the “Cap’s Kooky Quartet” era of Stan Lee’s run on The Avengers—an odd period early in the book’s history that saw Steve Rogers assemble a squad of reformed criminals (including Hawkeye and Scarlet Witch) following the disbandment of the original “A-list” version of the group.

Regardless of the source material, the film is a competently crafted example of the stock “ragtag band of misfits set aside their differences in order to overcome seemingly insurmountable odds” plot—not as elegantly executed as James Gunn’s The Suicide Squad, perhaps, but certainly vastly superior to David Ayer’s abysmal Suicide Squad. Although the overarching structure is somewhat formulaic and typical of the genre—our protagonists meet, fight, reluctantly join forces once they’ve resolved their initial misunderstanding, gradually develop a grudging respect for one another, and ultimately become something akin to an actual family—the moment-to-moment details elevate this familiar framework. The cast is particularly superb, enriching characters that are already delightfully flawed, nuanced, and morally ambiguous on the page: Wyatt Russell, for instance, effortlessly conveys the corrosive self-loathing lurking beneath U.S. Agent’s façade of unwavering confidence (i.e., arrogance); David Harbour’s tragicomic turn as The Red Guardian is likewise deliciously contradictory, imbuing the Soviet super-soldier’s boisterous personality with a sense of vulnerability and insecurity. Florence Pugh, however, is the real MVP, delivering such a transcendently beautiful performance that it almost defies description; her interpretation of Black Widow is a surprisingly authentic portrait of ennui, trauma, and self-destruction—which makes watching her claw her way out of a literal void of nihilism and despair a genuinely cathartic and emotionally rewarding experience.

I don’t know if I’d argue that Thunderbolts* represents a “return to form” for Marvel, necessarily, nor would I classify it as a "course correction"; nevertheless, it gracefully demonstrates what talented filmmakers can accomplish even within the suffocating limitations of corporate “content” production. Boasting clearly-defined themes, solid stunt choreography, and cinematography with some semblance of depth and texture, it stands head-and-shoulders above the rest of the studio’s recent output (in other words: slightly above average when graded on a curve—good enough).