Till Death Do Us Part

If it seems churlish to weigh "Watchmen" against heavyweight champions like "The Lord of the Rings," blame Warner Brothers, which invited such lofty comparisons when it foolishly began calling Snyder a "visionary" in its marketing campaign. Snyder, 43, has made only two previous films, and one of them was a remake of "Dawn of the Dead." Calling him a visionary based on "300"—with its numbingly repetitive, CGI arterial sprays—and a zombie flick paints a big fat target on his forehead for people like me. And "Watchmen's" failure hinges precisely on the fault line between a wildly proficient director—which Snyder is—and a visionary. Which he's not. At least not yet.

The opening credit sequence is the one spot where "Watchmen" has a real grandeur, plus a witty, lurid tone that nails the graphic novel. Set to Bob Dylan's "The Times They Are A-Changin'," the credits set up the story's alternate history, with moving snapshots of iconic 20th-century moments, all turned slightly askew by the subtle intervention of superheroes. In one glimpse, a first-generation "mask" named Silhouette, a lanky femme fatale type, snatches away the sailor's girl from Alfred Eisenstaedt's famed Times Square V-J Day photograph and plants a hot kiss on her lips. Later we see another mask—the Comedian, whose murder sets the story in motion—behind the grassy knoll in Dallas, taking out JFK. It's a testimony to Snyder's potential that the best part of his "Watchmen"—those marvelous credits—is the only place where he was forced to fend for himself, with no blueprint to guide him. Or paralyze him.

Snyder's attention wanders when it comes to meat-and-potatoes storytelling, perhaps because he's never really had to tell one before. He draws performances that range from sublime (Jackie Earle Haley as a bitter antihero named Rorschach) to ridiculous (Malin Akerman, who has a sweet onscreen disposition but is nonetheless the Jar Jar Binks of "Watchmen"). Billy Crudup, a great actor, does the best he can with the comic's most celebrated character, Dr. Manhattan, a physicist who gets transformed by a lab accident into an enormous, walking, talking, glowing A-bomb and who teleports to Mars whenever he needs to go to his quiet place. His romance with Akerman's character is on the rocks, and he learns the hard way that being a giant blue demigod is great for world peace but it's hell on a relationship.

Snyder also makes gross errors in tone, giving his flimsy villain a rinky-dink costume with nipples on its chest plate. He has said in interviews that he did it on purpose to preserve Moore's sendup of superhero self-seriousness, but that kind of subtlety isn't Snyder's strong suit, which is obvious the first time we see Dr. Manhattan wander across the screen in the nude, with his giant blue junk flapping in the apocalyptic breeze—another misguided sop to the novel and its R-rated sensibility. Apparently, loyalty means never having to say, "For God's sake, put on a codpiece."

© 2009