Buffy babe? Angel acolyte? Firefly fanatic?
Or more simply a Whedon whore?
I’ve often used the phrase, last storyteller still standing to describe Whedon. He delivered us Serenity after the sense-shrivelling mess that was Revenge of the Sith. The definitive modern space frolic.
He gave us the Avengers after a slew of mediocre and some truly rubbish lead ins, which seemed to be nothing more than stretched-out trailers.
And between Buffy, Angel and Firefly he reinvented a genre which had too long been steeped in cheese leaving even its most ardent fans cowering in the closet, helping to usher in a new generation who wore their geekery proudly.
His own geeekery owes nothing to vampires, love of elves or enthusing at flux capacitors. He is a story nerd. I relate. We’re still few in number. This is why I love him. He understands many of the key elements that make good story with a Jedi’s level of mastery. Structure is his God. He doesn’t just understand pacing in a cold mathematical way, (though he can mark it out like Archimedes) he gets the rhythm that underpins it, the instinctual feel of it, the emotional undercurrents that drive and bind everything.
I’m very much of the ‘make it dark, make it grim, make it tough,’ but then, for the love of God, tell a joke.
Suffice to say, I’m pretty much the biggest Whedon fan I know, so colour me shocked when I recently enthusiastically joined in a discussion on the upcoming Avengers sequel. Yikes.. and double yikes! And I thought I knew the worst of fanboys after getting tangled in a Nolan-ite faceoff. Forget Whedon Whores, Whedon Wolves – rabid unneutered wolves seems more appropriate. If only I had read this warning first..