Is there no greater proof of one’s commitment to a spouse than the fact that The Hammer actually agreed to see The Watchmen this weekend? I think not, even when one takes into consideration that the deal was brokered without one party coming clean on the film’s 160-minute length. Off the top, I can think of at least fifteen things she’d rather have been doing as we expended valuable babysitter time, and none involve spandex, bad make-up, wooden performances nor stale popcorn. But more surprising than the omnipresence of blue cock – the fact that The Hammer seemed to fancy the film more than I.
Perhaps it was an appreciation of the omnipresence of blue cock.
Truth be told, I entered with reservations, all of which were proved correct in one way or another as the film ramroded its way into hour #2. It wasn’t horrible, nor disrespectful to its source material. And in retrospect, there are some sequences that have lingered in memory memorably. Yet it’s telling that my current highlights – the origin tale of Dr. Manhattan, the case that cracked Rorschach – are sections where director Zach Snyder actually allowed the work a chance to breathe, a fact that supports the notion that Alan Moore’s classic was never adequately destined for compression.