Look! Up in the sky! Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No… it’s another superhero movie. With the announcement of Spiderman’s imminent integration into the ludicrously profitable Marvel cinematic universe, now seems as good a time as any to assess the state, or rather the prevalence, of the superhero movie. In fact, there are around 30 superhero movies, based on DC or Marvel comics, which are slated to arrive between now and 2020.

But why is the superhero market becoming so oversaturated? The simple answer is, as is usually the case in Hollywood, money. There are four superhero movies that have made over a billion dollars, and 2012’s The Avengers (entitled Avengers Assemble in the UK) still stands as the third highest grossing film of all time. The Marvel cinematic universe has in total grossed over $7 billion worldwide, and with the upcoming slate of phase 2 and phase 3 films in the pipeline at Disney, they show no signs of slowing their momentum.

But why has the superhero movie become such a cash cow? One answer is the economic concept of vertical integration. Superhero franchises such as X-Men, the Marvel cinematic universe or the elusive DC universe are composed of multiple franchises. The Marvel universe alone consists of the Iron Man series, the Thor series, the Captain America series and others that have either been launched or are set to launch across the next few years. Marvel has even crossed into television with Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. and Agent Carter, which promise to rake in cash for years to come. The potential for profit from a team-up movie such as The Avengers, which can draw in fans of each character’s respective franchise, incentivises film studios to make bigger and more diverse spectacles out of a genre that has become the blockbuster tent-pole.

So why is oversaturation a problem, if there seems to be a reliable audience for these films? Well, first there is the homogenising effect of the multi-franchise universe approach. The Marvel movies are necessarily tonally indistinct from each other, so that it doesn’t seem odd when Iron Man and Thor duke it out on screen. Man of Steel, Warner Brothers’ misguided attempt to launch their own cinematic universe, suffers from a subdued gritty realism, supposed to accommodate the inclusion of Batman at a future date – a character that Warner Brothers is relying on to sell their cinematic universe in the follow up to Man of Steel which is, tellingly, titled Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice.

The appeal of superhero movies is that they offer both spectacle and escapism. To be faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, to be able to leap tall buildings with a single bound: the superhero movie is a kind of power fantasy, an escape from human frailty or vulnerability. But what do we escape from if every superhero movie is the same? Recent efforts to shake up the style and feel of these films, notably Marvel’s Guardians of the Galaxy, are considered amongst the best of their franchises, and the gritty realistic take of Nolan’s Batman trilogy was enough to dislodge the sour taste of the campy Joel Schumacher films of the 1990s. But now, ‘gritty realist’ superhero movies and ‘fun spectacle’ seem to be the only two genres into which superhero movies fall.

Now that Kevin Feige will probably be producing every other movie coming out of Hollywood, the only question remaining is at what point will audience’s tire of the superhero genre? As of right now, the studios producing these films have no reason to change the formula, and will have no reason until they stop making money. But when they do need a change, they are lucky to be operating in a genre that has endless scope for reinvention, the recasting of young actors in the X-Men franchise standing testament to this.

For now however, superhero movies are going to stick with what works. Marvel will continue to produce movies that are tonally indistinct; DC will continue to replace the lead characters of their films with Batman and Sony will continue to reboot Spiderman. Well, maybe not everything works.

Over Christmas, one of British TV’s finest offerings returned to our screens. Following the sensational revelation of Danny Latimer’s killer (whose identity will not be mentioned in this article, though other spoilers may appear), Broadchurch has returned. Despite a certain continuity — DCI Alec Hardy continues to grimace a lot, the Latimer parents still have a rocky relationship, and everyone in the town seems to harbour dark histories or secrets — the new series has swung even further into the twin territories of emotional turmoil and sinister undertone.

What used to be essentially a police procedural has become a courtroom drama. It still looks gorgeous, with the same soft focus, picturesque framing and South Coast summer light that made the first series the best-shot British TV show of the last few years by a mile. House prices in the local area have shot up as seven million people each week sit down to watch a programme that is part crime drama, part Visit Devon advert. The acting, too, is masterful, as the cast continues to go from strength to strength. Nearly all the new characters are great, with particular mention going to Marianne Jean-Baptiste’s hardened defence lawyer and Charlotte Rampling’s sardonic prosecutorial equivalent, second only to the Latimer parents in terms of believability. Their backstories, as well as Eve Myles’ as Claire Ripley, continue to enthrall.

However, one gets the continued sense that the writers feel a constant need to beat the drama of each previous scene. It would be lovely if, just for a moment, everyone could please stop shouting. Almost every scene this series is packed full of weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, and whilst it does give the actors a lot with which to work, and a range of emotions to express (Olivia Coleman is especially good at this), the overall effect is to detract from the power of the series. If characters shout at each other in every single episode, then how do you go on to show when they’re really angry?Not all of the new characters are a success, either. Meera Syal is really, really annoying as the judge (who, for some reason, wears a barrister’s wig). When she tries to be authoritative and reserved, she comes across as smug and asinine.

Broadchurch is, perhaps, a bit high on its own success. The oh-so-clever parallels between the Broadchurch and Sandbrook cases are obvious — the dodgy fathers, the wives who may or may not have been accessories to the crime, DCI Hardy’s repeated infringements of the law retrospectively screwing up the prosecution; the list goes on. Not a single character can get away with just being normal, which is fine, apart from the fact that like the shouting, it diminishes the effect of everything else. Of course Sharon’s son is in prison. Of course she hates Jocelyn for failing to defend him. Of course he killed someone. Because it wouldn’t be Broadchurch if there weren’t tears and passions running high. It’s worrying that a show which was so real in its first instance is now in danger of jumping the shark.

Nonetheless, these criticisms are irrelevant in the face of the fact that every Monday night and the arrival of the next installment is so avidly awaited. We do still care intensely about the characters, and they do seem like real people. We’re moved by Beth Latimer’s intense sorrow, Hardy’s dogged determination to get a conviction, and Ellie Miller’s desperation for exoneration in the eyes of the town. They have almost as little control over events as we, the viewers, but still they continue to fight. This humanity is key to the continued appeal.

“I’ve had an epiphany,” cries the snapback-wearing Samuel L Jackson. Remember when Jules from Pulp Fiction decided to “walk the earth”? Turns out the walk finished on quite a low; Jules has been enjoying a career as a badly dressed, parody Bond villain. In this capacity, his second post-Pulp Fiction epiphany, involves culling the human race and thereby saving the planet from anthropogenic climate change. It’s the pretext for a story which, like Jackson’s character, can’t really decide how seriously it wants to take itself. 

At one level, the answer is not at all. You can feel the glee of Kick-Ass director Matthew Vaughn as his characters balletically shoot, chop, and generally emaciate each other with escalating improbability. In this regard one of the most playful elements of the film is Colin Firth’s character: essentially Mark Darcy from Bridget Jones after a few karate lessons. Like Vaughn, you can tell he is loving it. Indeed, after a series of frankly ludicrous fight scenes, you start to think that perhaps this is an exorcism of his secret frustration for missing out on Bond. In one scene, he uses an umbrella to win a bar fight before sending the barman into an amnesia coma with a dart from his watch. Imagine a drunk Tarantino directing a hybrid sequel of Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon and Men in Black.

The reason for the shenanigans is that Firth is a super secret agent in the employment of the Kingsmen. The Kingsmen are a shadowy apolitical agency that maintains world order without the burden of pesky democratic mandates and the like. Don’t worry though, their leader is Michael Caine, so it must be for the best. This agency dispatches our hero Eggsy, a teenager from a council estate, to an X-Men inspired countryside mansion to compete with other young would-be spies. 

The training montage that follows makes up the backbone of the film. This is one of defects of the film because it doesn’t offer much beyond the usual Full Metal Jacket stuff. Admittedly the formula is reinvigorated when at one point the cast of the Riot Club seems to have got to the wrong set and make a cameo. Their contribution doesn’t amount to much beyond: “Oxford or Cambridge?” [observing Eggsy’s lack of tie] “ah must be Durham”.

This encounter with snobbery betrays the fact that at another level the film does take itself seriously. There is an undercurrent of social commentary on how social inequality stifles meritocracy. While this is very worthy, the film makes the point in an incredibly ham-fisted way. Eggsy’s backstory is as clichéd as the innumerable spy film references: single mother upbringing, involvement in crime, abusive stepfather, council estate misery et cetera. What is worrying is that unlike the spy references, this insulting (almost Daily Mail level) caricature is presented without a touch of irony.

This inconsistency in tone also reveals the odd political message. Outwardly, it is sterilized of any politics – Jackson’s zealous environmentalism is decidedly post-political, the Kingsmen are adamantly apolitical. Yet the context of inequality that ultimately drove Eggsy into this fantastical world is surely a political issue. And yet it is through Eggys’s triumphs in this apolitical world that the film makes good the political failings that placed him in such a situation in the first place. This fantastical resolution to a very real social problem effectively de-politicizes the quest for a solution. With such a message, is it any wonder our generation won’t vote?

The film is riddled with such inconsistencies in tone and message. At the level of a good night in, Vaughn’s clumsy vision mixes the cool of Bond, the excess of Tarantino and the naivety of Disney. Unsurprisingly it leaves a nasty aftertaste. Sadly in light of the hidden politics of the film, the sense that something is not quite right is a symptom not only of poor direction.

Vaughn, shows up the clichés, but ultimately delivers even bigger clichés, dangerous clichés. Most worryingly, it is the un-ironic depiction of the less well of and their salvation through the pseudo meritocracy of the upper class, which sticks out most. Vaughn gets away with this by constantly ironising the story with indicators that let us know, that he knows that its all tongue in cheek. This self-awareness has the effect of authenticating the clichés he chooses to leave unexposed.

This also explains the popularity of Vaughn’s work. Like Kick Ass before it, Kingsman navigates the cold uncertain world of postmodernity to deliver the easy stories and easy solutions that commercial cinema gave us before deconstruction. He achieves this by adopting the form of postmodern film as if he were not delivering the same old rubbish. Herein lies his popularity, packaging old and possibly even reactionary stories, under the veneer of self-aware authenticity .The most regrettable part of all this is that he has moved from the facile morality of Kick Ass to the social conservatism of Kingsman. 

Cast your minds back to the not so distant past of December 2013. The X Factor is busy churning out yet another insipid Christmas number. This year’s quarry? Middle-aged mum Sam Bailey. Her humble origins as a prison officer and personable character won over the hearts of everyone idiotic enough to spend their hard earned cash on voting. Her cover of Demi Lovato’s ‘Skyscraper’ grabbed the 2013 Christmas Number One spot. The ex-cruise ship singer seemed to finally come out on top.

But since then? After her Number One 2014 album, The Power of Love, it’s been all quiet on the Bailey recording front. Well, other than supporting Beyoncé. A second single was announced, but quickly cancelled. Her label even rehashed the album for festive re-release (is that even a thing when the album was released in the same year?).

She continues to tour, appearing at Oxford New Theatre this weekend – but will she be just another one hit wonder? Only time will tell.

★★★★☆

Four stars

Now 36 albums into his career, Bob Dylan knows that he has nothing to prove to anyone. Unfortunately, this does not mean he necessarily has anything to contribute. While the unparalleled work of his past makes him closer to a living legend than any other current artist, his recent works, such as his misjudged Christmas album of six years ago, have an air of tangible decline and even a whiff self-indulgence. In Shadows in the Night, Dylan’s interpretation of ten classic songs as covered by Frank Sinatra, however, he manages to transform his dusty, cracked voice into a heartfelt messenger of pain, yearning, and love.  

Since My Chemical Romance’s breakup back in 2012, the now defunct band’s former frontman, Gerard Way, has kept himself busy. Very busy, in fact. He’s forged a second career in comics, writing an Eisner award winning series, The Umbrella Chronicles, and working with Marvel on the Edge Of Spiderverse series. Late last year, he released his debut solo album to rave reviews, and is currently touring the world promoting the record. Following his recent talk at the Oxford Union, he is now speaking with me about these projects, his creative process, and what’s finally allowed him to feel content.

It might surprise many who are familiar with Way through his highly conceptual work with his former band, or through his fantastical work in comics, to see his approach to promoting his solo LP, Hesitant Alien. He’s stripped back the costuming and allowed music and showmanship to take centre stage. Talking about this change in direction, Way tells me, “That in itself was the concept actually, not to have a concept. To focus just on the 70s and focus on glam, and just have fun with that element, and to really make it about the songs.”

He shares how much he’s enjoyed spreading his talents across disciplines, and how they’re all equally part of a creative vision. “I think it’s all just coming from expression and creation. I feel like an artist. It’s cool to wake up and be like, ‘What do I have to do today?’ Sometimes it’s the cover to a comic, sometime it’s a script to a comic, sometimes it’s writing a song, sometimes it’s recording a song, sometimes it’s writing lyrics, sometimes it’s coming up with video treatments. And I’m using every skill I have to make those things come to life.”

To those paying attention, his comic book successes likely came as little surprise. Way’s musical output has frequently comprised narrative elements. He even released a comic book follow up to My Chemical Romance’s last album, Danger Days, following the continued adventures of the album’s ‘Fabulous Killjoys’. I ask if he uses characters in his lyrics as a way to externalise aspects of himself with which he feels uncomfortable. He replies, “To me, playing a character or using a character, it doesn’t feel like you’re hiding behind them. It almost feels like you’re saying, ‘I am the character.’”

Yet for all the excitement surrounding his latest release, Way is in no hurry to distance himself from his successes with his former band. He tells me he “didn’t become a solo artist to make the kind of art I wanted specifically, because I felt like I could always do that. So at that moment it came time and I started making Hesitant Alien, it’s just what came out. All this Britpop and fuzz rock and all that.” During his talk with the Union, though, Way did seem pretty certain the band was done for good, telling the anxious crowd, “It feels like it achieved what it set out to achieve.”

However, he hasn’t necessarily retired the theatricality of his previous work, suggesting, “I’m thinking of writing for the next album, and I’m feeling like it’s a concept album. It’s definitely too early only in that the new stuff feels like it’s gone further down the rabbit hole of glam, like a more traditional 70s kind of thing. So it feels like it’s gone that way, but I don’t know what will happen when we hit record. It could take on a whole new life.”

Now happily married to artist and Mindless Self Indulgence bassist Lyn-Z, and with a five year old daughter, Bandit, Way seems as if he’s settled into a new phase of life. Reacting to my suggestion that his solo effort was his most self-satisfying release to date, he confirms, “It gave me an understanding of what it meant to be an artist. I really started to understand that, and I think that made me content.

“I started to pare things down, and to realise what was important to me. On Hesitant Alien, I didn’t feel like I was fighting with anybody. With My Chemical Romance records it felt like it was some kind of boxing match, with society or the world. Paring things down made me feel like I could open them up a lot more.”

★★★☆☆

The Charlatans are one of Britain’s oldest and most revered indie rock bands, but the death of drummer Jon Brookes in 2013 gave their newest LP a tragic backdrop. The band, however, appears to have responded positively, and their latest offering is an overwhelmingly hopeful experience.

This optimism is felt most on the seventh track, the six minute long ‘Let the Good Times Be Never Ending’; if its title doesn’t make this obvious, the gospel backing vocals and horns, recalling the band’s Manchester roots, will certainly do so. It is by no means the best thing here – the bridge in particular sounds very dated – but it’s a good approximation of their brighter outlook on this record.

Elsewhere, what we get is pretty standard fare – whirring organs interpolated with punching basslines. But there is plenty to admire, particularly the opening track. ‘Talking in Tones’ poignantly reminds us of the loss of Brookes, whilst also evoking the album’s spirit of positivity. Elsewhere, the hazy, mellow production and catchy melodies continue this theme, with fairly successful results, although there are moments of dull love-song filler – ‘Emilie’ being guilty of this.

For the most part, the band meet their aims here, and while Modern Nature is far from perfect, the atmosphere and strong songwriting are testament to the consistency of a band now approaching the 25th anniversary of its formation.

★★★☆☆

Three stars

Nina Kraviz is without doubt something of a divisive force amongst the techno intelligentsia. In a world dominated by 30-something middle aged men, the young, and undeniably aesthetic DJ from Siberia might appear out of place: no stranger to publicity, she made waves in 2013 bathing on camera whilst talking about life as a DJ on the road.

Yet beneath the media image, lies a DJ with an admirable sense of rhythm and mood that shines through the most recent mix in the DJ-Kicks mix series. Kraviz’s mixing style is certainly unusual, weaving tracks on top of an anchor. This creates a wonderfully coherent, and almost trippy sound, as the anchor comes in and out of focus – the blending of Exos’ ‘Nuclear Red Guard’, or her ‘Prozimokampleme’ near the middle are masterful examples of mixing at its finest. The blending of the atmospheric Parsec and the vocal sample create a wonderfully smooth and smokey move into the final stages of the mix.

Yet despite this, there is still a sense of something missing. For one thing, Kraviz has used this mix as a showcase of her new label, which put out its first release last year. This is not unusual, yet it does make for a few slightly slower patches, which require more patient listening. Yet surely this is the point: mix CDs are not supposed to be examples of a set played in a club. As something to listen to with headphones in private, this mix serves as a genuinely interesting example of the craft, from a DJ who deserves serious attention, and not just for her cheekbones.

Francis Ford Coppola’s masterpiece seemed to be destined for success from the get-go. It was an adaptation of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, regarded as one of the greatest novels of the Nineteenth century. It was directed by the mastermind behind the two Godfather films. It was set during the Vietnam War, a sure-fire way to garner extensive publicity. And it was Marlon Brando’s return to the silver screen proper, after a string of critically-panned cameos done just for the money. The stage was set for triumph. What could possibly go wrong? 

As it turned out, everything went wrong, very quickly and very drastically. Nature played an important role in both the source material of Heart of Darkness, and the adaptation, where the setting during the Vietnam War played upon ideas of alien territory, unforgiving jungle landscapes, and the blaringly ominous wilderness of natives and unknowns. And of course, the narrative is centred around a journey up a river, with scenes that range from the beginning, where a young Lawrence Fishburne jives to The Rolling Stones, to the pyrotechnical anarchy at the Du Long Bridge. 

But nature turned out to be a constant menace for the production team just as much as the protagonists. Sets and cinematography equipment had started to be shipped in from 1975, but instead of being met with a ready cast and crew, Typhoon Olga crashed in and destroyed most of the prepared sets. The destruction was so total that most of the crew flew back to the US for six to eight weeks, pushing the filming schedule back by the same amount and pushing the production $2 million over budget before filming had really even begun. 

So much for a relaxed shoot in the balmy climate of the Philippines. And it wasn’t just nature that turned against the production. Famously, Brando turned up to the production enormously overweight, having been cast to play the skeletal Kurtz, without having learnt his lines, having not read the book, and having agreed to turn up only on the condition of a $1 million a week contract. 

Then Martin Sheen had a heart attack on set. Then Coppola realised the film’s ending needed to be completely re-written. Then the production was shut down after it emerged that bodies used for a harrowing scene towards the end had actually been stolen from a local graveyard. Then animal rights groups went up in arms when it emerged that an animal sacrifice scene had involved the actual killing of a cow by a native tribe. 

And all that combined so that a projected five month shoot schedule ended up taking over two years. Who would have thought that a typhoon would prove such an inauspicious omen? Coppola can consider himself a lucky man then, when what came out of that calamity of a production became one of the greatest films of the Twentieth century, which won two Oscars and the Palme d’Or at Cannes. It turns out there was a method after all.