On January 2, 1988, Alan T. Brown was on vacation in Martinique. He was just about to turn 21. The deep blue ocean beckoned and he dove into the surf. The next thing he knew the undertow pulled his legs out from under him and flipped him upside down onto the hard sand. He hit the ocean's floor head-first then heard a snap.
In today's movies, my reaction to seeing entire cities destroyed while superheroes fight is to shrug. That doesn't seem right. I feel that I should be offended, or at least disturbed -- but I've seen it so many times now that I just don't care. We've raised the stakes so high, they've effectively lost their meaning. How much more destruction can the next villain cause that this last one didn't? As an audience member trying to relate to what's happening onscreen, there's a point where I think, Dead is dead. How much more dead can I be?
To mark the release of this weekend's Man of Steel -- and against my better judgment -- I decided to re-watch Superman III for the first time since 1983 and hopefully not destroy a little piece of my childhood in the process. Along the way, I've committed to keeping a running diary. So here we go. (Sorry, childhood memories.)