The Dark Knight: The Attila Review

So, A the H and I saw The Dark Knight yesterday. This is a movie in which:

• We didn't get to see Heath Ledger without any makeup on. That was sad.

• I liked Heath Ledger despite my (doubtless somewhat Electral) crush on Jack Nicholson, and though I haven't read enough comic books to discuss fidelity to any of the original sources, I feel Ledger really nailed a certain type of psychopathic / sociopathic personality, here. So, yes: I'd still dig it, even if the film hadn't turned into his swan song.

• Christian Bale doesn't take his shirt off enough.

• Aaron Eckhart doesn't take his shirt off nearly enough.

• There is, in fact, a certain paucity of shirtless scenes.

• Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman both have that sort of timeless, Sean Connery-esque quality wherein one doesn't precisely want to do them (I'm not that Electral), but sort of sit at their feet and listen to them talk in Those Voices—all freakin' day long.

Not so much "may I give you a blowjob, Sir?" but more like "may I get you a drink? Some ice cream? Pictures of my younger sister naked? Candy? The dead bodies of my neighbors, stacked up in the corner with a light dusting of lime on 'em? Watermelon cubes? What's your pleasure?"

Whatever it would take for them to keep talking in those amazing, dulcet tones until they just went hoarse.

I'd be digging through my books, finding the poetry I thought was best-suited to each of them. "Here. Read this. Oh, and here are the deeds to my husband's, my brother's, and my mother's assets, since I don't have any of my own. Just keep talking."

You know how it is with those fucking older actors—including James Earl Jones, minus the Star Wars roles (because I'm not quite that kinky): the first few readings are free. After that, you have to pay. I'm just not clear yet on what the price is.

* * *

It could be that communicating with me is just as, um, refreshingly challenging with me as it is with my mother. Like doing a crossword puzzle without having to wear down your #2 pencil.

Joy: "I'm as amazed as everyone else by what Heath Ledger accomplished, but I also thought that whathisface did a great job as well."

A the H: "Christian Bale."

Joy: "And, you know, I'm always happy to see whatshisotherface in any movie; how many have they done together at this point?"

A the H: "Right: Michael Caine. Well, there was The Prestige, and Batman Begins. And this one, of course. I think it's only three."

Joy: "He hasn't changed at all since Sleuth."

A the H: "I'm not so sure about that."

Joy: "Oh, like we're a couple of spring chickens."

A the H: "Hm. Who was the first guy to play Batman?

Joy (startled, because she's not used to answering pop-culture questions that don't have to do with James Thurber, obscure poetry, or Franco Zefirelli's version of Romeo and Juliet.): "Okay. On the TV series with the great theme that my mom rarely let us watch, it was Adam West. Michael Keaton did it in a feature or two, a movie-series or two ago, and the pick was controversial because some people thought, for crying out loud, that he didn't have the right jaw for the part.

"And I believe Val Kilmer played Batman it at least once, and I sure hope they didn't complain about his jaw, since I don't think the whole thing fits into the state of California, at least from side to side—as I recall, they have to film Kilmer so his face is parallel to the ocean, or one side of his jawbone pokes into Nevada or Arizona."

A the H: "Not bad. I mean, the number of actors—not the overwrought metaphor."

Joy: "Even in my senility, I can occasionally crank out a factoid or two. But the best Val Kilmer movie was Heat. Agreed?"

A the H: "Oh, yeah. Best shootout ever."

Joy: "And bitchinest characterizations in a crime movie ever. Though remember that one little character discontinuity in Heat? Did I ever tell you about that one?"

A the H: "Countless times. Oh, please: don't start. Not tonight."

Joy: "So I'm right about that."

A the H: "No. Not even a little bit right. No."

So, there you have it: one never knows when I will or will not be able to recall proper nouns without a little help. And there was one small problematic characterization in Heat—something just tad inconsistent.

Remember? The history books are written by the victors.

And the victors are the ones who never give up.

There is one person who can get Mandy—and other terrier-types of dog—let go of a favorite toy or tennis ball. That person is me. I've never seen anyone else do it, unless they had a golf club and hit the dog over the head until he or she relinquished the toy. Not necessary. And not easy, anyway, give the pit bull's famous/infamous pain tolerance.

There's a trick. I know it. Mandy won't admit it, but I'm the Dominant Dog in the relationship. Sure: she's powerful, and if she's feeling frisky and threatening to break out on her own for a bit of a romp, I will give the leash to my mother, because that extra 80-100 pounds helps. One is, after all, up against the laws of physics, and in order to keep her in one place I have to have the right kind of leash and lie down on my tummy, which is not the right message to send to a teenaged pit bull.

But if i have the tennis ball and I want to keep it, the Jaws of Death don't stop me. She respects that.