'Iron Man 3'

For all our fixation these days on 'arcs' and the apparent prerequisite that all trilogies have them, it is amazing how often the average three-peat saga comes close to missing that all-important endcap, the protagonist's moment of cathartic, Shakespearean introspection that drives home the point of the Whole Damn Thing. I thought 'The Dark Knight Rises' was a little thin on closing Bruce Wayne's emotional circle, and don't get me started on the Star Wars prequels. 'Iron Man 3' is a far from perfect film; in fact, at times it stumbles badly and teeters on the brink of non-sensical, but it saves itself by delivering a satisfying closure to the character of Tony Stark and reminding us why we cared about him in the first place. It is the film's greatest strength. It's just too bad it takes as long as it does to get there.

'IM3' finds Stark in familiar territory, which is what the genius inventor craves more than anything after his near-death experience over the skies of New York following the events of 'The Avengers'. Stark is beset by sleeplessness and panic attacks and refuses to discuss the world-shaking events of the year previous, as it seems to have driven home (like none of his OTHER near-death experiences) that he is very mortal and very vulnerable, despite the legion of super-powered exoskeletons at his command. Downey Jr.'s Stark is at his manic twitchiest, a hyperactive man-child who can only find focus when his nose is buried in circuit boards but is otherwise a floundering mess and a social reprobate to boot. Through pure nervous compulsion he has fashioned some forty more Iron Man models, each one a little different and each, we suspect, somehow inadequate, insufficient to the task of saving the world when next it decides to combust around him. Seeing his Terra Cotta array of mechanized suits we are not at all impressed by his technological prowess, only saddened by what is clearly a desperate outlet for his growing anxiety.

The shit hits the fan in a relatively predictable fashion: a villain appears, a domestic terrorist calling himself 'The Mandarin', who has been blowing up American interests all over the world, hacking a pirated signal into the global communications network, and boasting his ability to sow terror with impunity and promising escalation. What follows is a by-the-books first act that does a clunky job of thrusting Stark back in the superheroing business, as the Mandarin's newest attack lands his longtime bodyguard and friend Happy Hogan in a coma, prompting Stark to vow retribution on national television and call the Mandarin out for a one-on-one showdown.

The problem is that up until the terror hits home, Stark shows little interest in the Mandarin, his motivations, or his near-supernatural means of delivering undetectable bombs to American targets without leaving behind any forensic evidence. He discovers from old friend and fellow-iron suited adventurer James Rhodes (the always excellent, frequently underused Don Cheadle) that while three bombs have been traced to Mandarin publicly, he is, in fact, responsible for no fewer than nine around the world. Tony, whose own technology is so advanced it borders on science-silly, is clearly the best man to find and stop the Mandarin, yet he does nothing about it until the madman accepts his challenge and blows up his Malibu mansion while the world watches.

Bereft of all but his half-functioning prototype armor and with his genius computer JARVIS on the fritz, Tony is propelled by a very unlikely plot hook to rural Tennessee, where he begins a decidedly low-tech investigation into the source of Mandarin's weapons. Here the film slows to a crawl, which is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand it gives us a chance to see a multitude of Tony moments, seeing Stark off his guard, out of his element, and more exposed than ever. Downey Jr. shines in these moments and almost but doesn't quite make up for the contrived and fiendishly tired device of the world-weary-beyond-his-years-pre-teen who helps him out. On the other hand we've seen very little Iron Man action at this point, and as someone who paid good money for a superhero flick, one can't help but hear echos of the grumbling heard during 'The Dark Knight Rises' when very little was seen of Batman for the first half of the film. By way of compensating, the guys (and some gals) are at least treated to some more Pepper Potts, played by Gwyneth Paltrow, who, yes, does not age from film to film and looks more beautiful with every frame of celluloid that graces her perfect skin. Kudos for involving her more in the plot this time around, and even giving her a few minutes in the Iron Man armor.

Well into the film but long before we get to anything resembling a climax, 'IM3' descends into stock action, stock betrayals, and stock improbable escapes, each one more bewildering than the one that preceded it. Most confusing is the motivation of the film's true antagonist (the ever-intense Guy Pearce playing a character so forgettable his name stops being important the second you learn it) the progenitor of A.I.M., a high-tech terror organization (which, in the Marvel comics, was always a third-string annoyance to whichever hero they happened to be pestering at the time). Here, however, Pearce's character has used more gobbilty-gook technology to fashion an army of super-soldiers who can breathe fire, melt steel, ignore pain and endure a seemingly limitless amount of punishment before being vanquished. Why he is doing this and what his ultimate goal for unleashing these invincible warriors is not something the film ever really bothers to explain; it could be simple revenge against Tony Stark, who drunkenly spurned him in a flashback, or to genuinely spread anarchy around the world (like we'd notice more) or corner the market on the miracle regenerative powers of his technology. But if the latter is the case, why on Earth would he need to kill people just to sell his limb-regrowing tech? Wouldn't he make trillions legally by pioneering legitimate advances in the field of medicine? And how does cell-regrowth lead to the ability to turn one's body into a super-furnace that can disable and destroy Iron Man suits like they were brittle pistachio shells? At some point the audience is simply forced to file it under 'evil for evil's sake' or else risk tearing an Incredible Hulk-sized hole in the struggling plot.

Just when Act Two starts to feel tailor-made for a bathroom break, it is saved by two things: Stark's ludicrous but extremely fun infiltration of the Mandarin's Miami headquarters sans armor and the not-so-secret (thanks, Internet) revelation of the 'true' nature of the Mandarin himself, as played out by the incomparable Ben Kingsley. Much and more has been said of Sir Ben's inhuman acting abilities and without giving anything away I can confirm that even in this brief role he justifies all the praise, effortlessly outpacing every other thespian on screen in a manner you have to see to believe. Suffice to say if you are lucky enough to reach his pivotal scene without having the 'surprise' ruined, you're in for a treat.

The inevitable final showdown is done competently enough but at no point does it truly thrill. Again, thanks to TMI trailers and endless promotional clips even casual viewers know what to expect going in: a balls-to-the-wall fight between the bad guys, who display so much raw power one wonders why they ever bothered hiding their true intentions, and Stark, who manages to bring so much eleventh-hour heroics to the table you can't help scratching your head as to why he was ever worried in the first place. At times the action descends into the absurd, with Tony – NOT as Iron Man – performing completely improvised feats of strength and agility that would rival Seal Team Six, much less a pampered billionaire with a heart condition. Cheadle is great here, though his stingy screen time leaves us craving more.

When the mano-a-mano fight does finally happen, it looks exactly like every other superhero slam-fest: see 'X-Men' 1,2, and 3; any 'Hulk' movie; any 'Spider-Man'; 'Thor' and, I strongly suspect, the upcoming 'Man of Steel'. Finish up with a series of last-second script patches, including a hilariously WTF subplot involving high treason from the Vice President of the United States for the dumbest reason imaginable, and you've got a picture.

But it begins and ends with Tony Stark, and here I'm glad at least that the filmmakers remembered who the real hero was. For the 'Iron Man' trilogy is about nothing if it's not about dependency: what we need – or what we THINK we need – to get by in life. As a pre-Iron Man cad, Tony drinks too much even though we're never told why, save a pallid hint (and cursory nod to the comic books) that maybe it's just in his nature. After he suits up he stops the booze but substitutes one addiction for another, becoming dependent on Iron Man to define who he is. In 'IM3' he comes full circle, realizing Iron Man was never really so much a suit of armor as it was a state of mind; a fun, showy substitute for real friends, real love, real life. It is a reasonably satisfying, if formulaic, end to the character's much ballyhooed 'arc'.

Of course, we already know Tony Stark is not even close to hanging up the repulsors. There's 'Avengers 2' to think about, and however many more stand-alone 'Iron Man's Downey Jr. has left in him. And yes, you will have to hold your bladder a little longer and stay for the end credits to get a hint of what's to come.

This time, however, it is definitely NOT Scarlett Johansson and Captain America chowing on fast food.