A few years ago, African-American film-maker Peter Ramsey was hailed in many sections of the media as “the Obama of animation”. Even in the age of Trump, he’s a force to be reckoned with.
As co-director of this Sony-Marvel collaboration — a cartoon reboot with a superhero of African-American/Latino descent — Ramsey’s had a series of explosive encounters on Twitter with those who claim the movie’s pro-diversity stance will be punished at the box office (Hashtag getwokegobroke). “Oh f*** off,” tweeted Ramsey.
Though something tells me this movie will connect with audiences, my Spidey senses are notoriously rubbish. So let’s just say Into the Spider-Verse deserves to be a hit. Miles Morales (voiced by Shameik Moore) is a skinny, anti-elitist rap and sports-mad 13-year-old who hails from a version of Brooklyn in which a buff, blonde Peter Parker/Spider-Man (voiced by Chris Pine) routinely saves the day. Soon, though, heartbroken baddie Kingpin (Liev Schreiber) rips a hole in the multiverse, which kills the aforementioned “real” Spider-Man, leaving Miles, recently bitten by a peskily irradiated arachnid, to fill some very large shoes.
The silver lining is that variations on the Spider-Man theme, hitherto stuck in parallel dimensions, can now join forces. There’s Spider-Woman (Hailee Steinfeld), Spider-Man Noir (Nic Cage, enjoyably hammy), an anime tot, Peni Parker (Kimiko Glenn), and even a pugnacious non-human, Spider-Ham (John Mulaney). Plus a 40-year-old Peter Parker (Jake Johnson), who has brown hair, low self-esteem and a surprisingly aggressive Aunt May (Lily Tomlin, nifty).
The script, co-written by Lego legend Phil Lord, is saucy, heartfelt and smart (there’s a supple subplot about Miles’s cool gangster uncle), but what’s most original about the film is how it looks. New York has a luminous texture. This is a 3D movie designed to evoke the feel of a multitude of comic books. During a webslinging chase and/or fight scenes, it’s as if we’re in a ginormous lava lamp full of fast-slow bubbles and lacerating shards of Pop Art.
A post-credits scene shows crudely drawn figures from a Sixties TV show enjoying a mask-off. If you’re thrilled by the history of illustration/animation/genre-pastiche, you’ll find it hard to stop drooling.
True, none of the female characters (whether the generically sassy Gwen Stacy/Spider-Woman, or the I-just-want-to-settle-down-and-have-babies Mary Jane) can hold a candle to Spider-Man: Homecoming’s prickly, poetic Michelle. The latter’s Sylvia Plath T-shirt, alas, has no place in this universe. The myth-making, too, can get a tad busy. Into the Spider-Verse, though as beautiful as 2016’s The Red Turtle, is as noisy as that film was calm.
Still, what a pleasure to meet Miles, a poster boy for the world’s hyphenated hybrids and so much more than a token gesture. Why watch this kid spin through psychedelic air? The clue’s in the surname. It’s good for morale.
