By Mike O’Donnell.
It’s 1992, I’m a 13 year old boy, and I’m super excited for the new Batman movie.
The first Batman film 3 years previous was epic. Batman is my new hero. Batman in Batman Returns is gonna blow my mind. I can’t wait. I go to the cinema with some friends. We get popcorn to share because it’s the north and we’re all poor. It’s salted, not sweet, so I don’t have any. What kind of monster chooses salted popcorn over sweet popcorn anyway? We take our seats and fidget our way through the trailers. The lights finally go down, the curtain draws back. Danny Elfman’s genius fills our ears. Tim Burton’s vision delights us. A beautiful cast of cinema giants transports us.
And then, Catwoman.
I’m a 13 year old boy. The only thing that could possibly outshine The Batman, is Michelle Pfieffer in a leather catsuit.
Catwoman. Bloody hell…
This film is gorgeous. The dialogue, the music, the performances, the atmosphere, the costumes, the set design; all masterfully arranged by arguably one of the finest directors ever.
But bloody hell, Catwoman!
I watched the film again recently, and while it may have lost some of its wonder now that I’m a little older and a little jaded, I picked up on many things my 13 year old self missed. The innuendo is delicious. The darkness is pervasive. The S&M subtext is delightfully naughty. But you know what hasn’t changed?
Catwoman. Bloody hell, Catwoman…