Batman Forever represents a major changing of the guard for a once dark, quirky franchise. In the wake of Tim Burton and Michael Keaton's departures, a new actor dons the spandex, two new villains are raided from the pantry, a new blonde bombshell arrives to escalate romantic tensions and a new ally is drafted for combat duty.
I don't understand the pressing urge to connect this film with the two preceding efforts, given their striking (and immediate) differences, but evidently some backstage emphasis was drawn, because great pains are taken to remind us that this is indeed the same character who tossed the Joker from a skyscraper and batted eyelashes with Catwoman a few years prior. No matter how little Val Kilmer may resemble Michael Keaton or how few visual consistencies this rendition of Gotham City may share with the one seen in Batman Returns. It's a drastically different beast in a tonal sense, as well; brighter and poppier, with more interest in flashy set pieces and less in creepy, twisted origin stories. Paired with a big-time movie soundtrack (could you imagine U2 crooning over the Penguin's parade of explosive rubber ducks?), the new model does everything in its power to redirect Burton's gothic weirdness back toward the friendlier, wackier day-glow Batman action of old. All this while still vehemently insisting it's a direct successor.
Unsurprisingly, the end result is an ugly clash of styles and half-shaped ideas. Nothing has purpose or reason. Reality is casually disregarded in the race to capture the next big idea. Characters thrash about, in colorful wardrobe, with limited personality and subtext. Tommy Lee Jones is the worst offender in this respect, giddily dancing around the frame like a brainless wannabe Joker (two of his nonsensical master plans involve an acid-drenched bank vault, suspended from a helicopter, and a rocket launcher in a baby carriage), but he has no shortage of competition. Jones and his cackling criminal partner, an early-stardom Jim Carrey, push hard to over-act one another in each and every shared scene. No wonder they loathed each other off-screen. Kilmer's rendition of Batman / Bruce Wayne, meanwhile, lands somewhere between sterile and confused, while Chris O'Donnell's Robin struggles to justify his own existence and Nicole Kidman's meddling sexpot psychologist waves her tail like an animal in heat.
Who was this made for, really? Did they actually enjoy it? And how did it merit a follow-up? Even the Batmobile has lost its coolness factor.
Review by drqshadowBlockedParent2022-06-03T19:20:06Z
Batman Forever represents a major changing of the guard for a once dark, quirky franchise. In the wake of Tim Burton and Michael Keaton's departures, a new actor dons the spandex, two new villains are raided from the pantry, a new blonde bombshell arrives to escalate romantic tensions and a new ally is drafted for combat duty.
I don't understand the pressing urge to connect this film with the two preceding efforts, given their striking (and immediate) differences, but evidently some backstage emphasis was drawn, because great pains are taken to remind us that this is indeed the same character who tossed the Joker from a skyscraper and batted eyelashes with Catwoman a few years prior. No matter how little Val Kilmer may resemble Michael Keaton or how few visual consistencies this rendition of Gotham City may share with the one seen in Batman Returns. It's a drastically different beast in a tonal sense, as well; brighter and poppier, with more interest in flashy set pieces and less in creepy, twisted origin stories. Paired with a big-time movie soundtrack (could you imagine U2 crooning over the Penguin's parade of explosive rubber ducks?), the new model does everything in its power to redirect Burton's gothic weirdness back toward the friendlier, wackier day-glow Batman action of old. All this while still vehemently insisting it's a direct successor.
Unsurprisingly, the end result is an ugly clash of styles and half-shaped ideas. Nothing has purpose or reason. Reality is casually disregarded in the race to capture the next big idea. Characters thrash about, in colorful wardrobe, with limited personality and subtext. Tommy Lee Jones is the worst offender in this respect, giddily dancing around the frame like a brainless wannabe Joker (two of his nonsensical master plans involve an acid-drenched bank vault, suspended from a helicopter, and a rocket launcher in a baby carriage), but he has no shortage of competition. Jones and his cackling criminal partner, an early-stardom Jim Carrey, push hard to over-act one another in each and every shared scene. No wonder they loathed each other off-screen. Kilmer's rendition of Batman / Bruce Wayne, meanwhile, lands somewhere between sterile and confused, while Chris O'Donnell's Robin struggles to justify his own existence and Nicole Kidman's meddling sexpot psychologist waves her tail like an animal in heat.
Who was this made for, really? Did they actually enjoy it? And how did it merit a follow-up? Even the Batmobile has lost its coolness factor.