Film review: ‘Black Panther”

Wakanda offers a present-day vision of Afrofuturism, where fighter planes shaped like traditional masks slip through portals and an underground railroad zips folks around.|

As a film arriving in 2018 made by a very talented African-American director with a who’s who of actors from the African diaspora, the importance of “Black Panther” cannot be overstated. Its immediate, colossal success is not a surprise given the immense appetite global audiences have shown for work by diverse filmmakers and actors.

That “Black Panther” is yet another mediocre Marvel film is almost beside the point. The same old beats - action sequence, character introduction, moderately funny joke - are done in a higher style here by director Ryan Coogler than elsewhere.

The plot commences with the coronation of the Black Panther, a man called T’Challa (Chadwick Boseman). He ingests the heart-shaped herb (a super-powered purple juice) and begins his reign over Wakanda, a heretofore unknown country in the heart of Africa.

The nation offers a present-day vision of Afrofuturism, where fighter planes shaped like traditional masks slip through portals and an underground railroad zips folks around.

Many of T’Challa’s problems relate to the difficulties of governance - should Wakanda stick to its isolationist roots or should they harness the magical powers of the element Vibranium to make the world feel their influence?

It’s a contrast at least to the Marvel films that are all about acquiring “Infinity Stones.”

T’Challa is supported by a sharp cast of Wakandans: Nakia (Lupita Nyong’o), his self-possessed ex; Okoye (Danai Gurira), the lead figure of his Grace Jones-inspired vanguard; W’Kabi (Daniel Kaluuya), his best bud and battle rhino trainer; M’Baku (Winston Duke), his humongous rival; his mother Ramonda (Angela Bassett), who does queenly; and his spiritual guide Zuri (Forest Whitaker), who does wise.

The most fleshed out of the cohort is probably T’Challa’s little sister Shuri (Letitia Wright), a cool teenage version of James Bond’s Q, who designs him a nifty cat suit that absorbs blows and harnesses their kinetic energy for counterattacks.

The token white men in the movie are amusing enough: Everett K. Ross (Martin Freeman) is a CIA agent along for the ride and Ulysses Klaue (Andy Serkis) is a gonzo black market arms dealer, blowing people away for the fun of it.

In the illustrious tradition of Marvel movies, the villain is far more convincing, far more compelling than the hero. Even saddled with the stupid moniker Erik Killmonger (one of the absurdest of comic movie absurdities is that all character names devised in the 1960s must be retained), Michael B. Jordan gives a roaring performance as the man who would be king in T’Challa’s place.

Looking down the barrel at an extensive series of sequels, you yearn for the lead roles to be flipped. The peak of excitement in “Black Panther” occurs when it seems Killmonger will hold the throne, arm all black people with Vibranium weapons and twist around that old colonial boast: “The sun will never set on the Wakandan empire!” To see that vision in action would have made for a much more interesting movie, with Killmonger’s warmongering in place of T’Challa’s ponderings on the best NGOs to start.

Of all the fun notes in “Black Panther,” the costume design is the greatest delight. One wants more of Isaach de Bankolé, a silent representative of the River Tribe, who rocks a lip plate coordinated with slick suits, a man more concerned with scooping up awesome threads than contributing to internecine predicaments.

Wakanda is splendid CGI pleasure domes but the scenery is never as bracing as that of Coogler’s Oakland in “Fruitvale Station” or his no-Liberty-Bell-in-sight Philadelphia in “Creed.” What is the correct role for the director - to make the best films or the best films he can from the biggest platform?

It’s a tough one to answer, but he has more in him than briefly triumphing the boredom inherent to comic book movies.

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