You know how everyone complains that the best bits of a movie are in the trailer these days? Well, in the case of the new super-hero blockbuster Captain America the ONLY bits are in the trailer.
But WHAT bits they are! At around c. 1.40 mins Chris Evans’ oiled bazookas burst out of the instant stud machine he’s been strapped into by the German-Jewish Frank-N-furter. Everyone’s jaw in the lab slaps the floor as the camera trolleys in for a worshipful close-up on those shiny, massive melons.
Injected with gallons of steroids and popped in the gimp microwave the skinny nerd’s buns have risen, transforming him, not into an ultimate fighting machine but into the ultimate Men’s Health cover model. And in just a few moments instead of the several months it usually takes everyone else using gear — or the seven days that Charles Atlas promised. Isn’t this every boy’s metrosexy dream come true?
So I eagerly coughed up £8 to see more of his super tits last night. But I was robbed. Turns out that this is the only time Evans’ gets his tits out in the whole movie. What a con! What a TEASE!
What’s more, this scene comes very early on in the film, and is its climax — in every way. Unfortunately, there’s another hour or two to go, in which our hero tediously battles the evil Nazi bad guy, fully-clothed – and wearing that daft helmet. Desperately trying to prove he’s not, as Tommy Lee Jones’ hard-bitten old Colonel character dismisses him after he has done one too many propaganda shows, a ‘chorus girl’.
But he so IS a chorus girl. No one went to see Captain America because they wanted to see him throwing his stupid bouncing dustbin lid around (has there ever been a more rubbish super-power? Or a camper one?) Male, female, gay, straight, young, old, animal and vegetable they ALL went to see his TITS.
And I’m not even mentioning the terrible script, total lack of any plot – or credibility – the completely lifeless direction, and the terrible acting (Evans’ body may have been injected with steroids but his face seems to have been injected with Novocaine). It is, after all, a super-hero movie.
Towards the end of this very long, very disappointing, very chaste movie date, Nick Fury played by Samuel L. Jackson in a dashing eye-patch, tells a defrosted Evans running around Times Square (finally levered into a nice tight t-shirt — but it’s much too little much too late): ‘You’ve been asleep for 70 years, Cap’n.’
‘YES!’ I felt like shouting at the screen in my local cinema, ‘AND SO HAVE WE!!’