Wonderwoman

No, I didn’t love it.  I mean, I enjoyed the heck out of the scenes in thermywhatsitsface, where all the Amazons were jumping around and fighting and what not, of course. Although even in those scenes I had a certain amount of ice in my heart.  You know the kind of thing.  Who does their laundry?  Why are they all the same age?  What do they feed the horses?

It’s when they leave thermywhatsitsface and wind up in WW1 that it gets annoying.  I mean, the woman has lived all her life on an island full of muscular effective autonomous women.  Why doesn’t she walk into a room full of male generals and wonder where are the women? (Wouldn’t it have been neat if there had been a solitary female secretary in the room taking notes and she’d gone straight to her?)  Why does she wander off through the western front accompanied by a man in a kilt, a man in a fez and a man in the wrong movie altogether?  (Wouldn’t it have been neat if she had picked up a suffragette, a VAD nurse and a lady despatch rider instead?)  And why oh why wasn’t the woman in the mask the secret bad guy all along?

Yes, yes: if you like the kind of summer movie where pretty people beat seven bells out of each other using buses and other handy implements then I’d rather watch one with a hero who’s a woman than one with a hero who’s a panther or a hero who’s an ant.

Because in the end THAT was the problem.

Being a woman, for Wonderwoman, is as significant as being rich is for Bruce Wayne or being an occasional rage monster is for Bruce Banner.  It wasn’t the superhero movie that finally recognised women are people: it was the superhero movie where being a woman was the hero’s schtick.

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