Spider-Man: No Way Home is about to make fools out of every fake entertainment “journalist” who’s blamed all these woketard flops on the China Flu pandemic. Not only was my 4 p.m. screening packed to the rafters, not only did the audience explode into applause at least a half-dozen times (word of mouth is going to propel this sucker into outer space), but after it was over, the theater lobby was packed, unlike anything I’ve seen since Avengers: Endgame.
Newsflash: If you make a decent movie that seeks to entertain and move — instead of lecture and shame — we will show up. Spider-Man: No Way Home does precisely that. You will not only have a great time at the movies again, but there’s no gay, transsexual, or racial nonsense. This movie is about only one thing: Delivering the goods.
No Way Home picks up where 2019’s Spider-Man: No Way Home left off. Thanks to Mysterio, the world now knows that Peter Parker is Spider-Man. In our media-saturated climate, this immediately makes life impossible, not only for Peter but for his friends and loved ones.
Feeling guilty over ruining everyone’s life, Peter seeks out Doctor Strange (Benedict Cumberbatch) and asks him to cast a spell that will make the world forget he’s Spider-Man. But thanks to Peter’s immaturity, the spell goes horribly awry, opens up the Marvel multiverse, and out steps some very satisfying and well-executed fan service.
While I was never bored, the first 40 minutes or so barely hung on. There’s a ton of story to set up, a lot of pipe to lay but whenever things threaten to get tedious or frantic, just in time, the story rallies to save itself. After those 40 minutes, once the actual story-story launches, everything’s pure pleasure, even the effects-laden climax — which is where my eyes tend to glaze over in these things. At one point, the moment where the audience went especially nuts, I even got a little emotional.
No Way Home doesn’t only entertain with an embrace of the past. It dabbles in monster-sized themes that surprise and gives you something to chew on. This is a movie about two things: second chances and self-sacrifice. In a nod to Tobey Maguire’s original Spider-Man trilogy, there’s even a flattering reference to America and Americanism with respect to those second chances.
This is how you make movies. This is how Hollywood used to make movies. No lectures. No shaming. No woke violations of human nature. The cast is multi-ethnic, and race is never an issue, which is what life is like in the real world, as opposed to Twitter and cable news.
No Way Home is also a gift to Zendaya, the young actress who plays M.J. — Peter’s girlfriend. In the previous two Spider-Man installments, she wasn’t a character. Instead, she was a woke identity. She was obnoxious and unattractive — you know like your first wife is obnoxious and unattractive. With unappealing roles like that, Zendaya’s shelf-life as a star was close to zero. No Way Home is the first time I’ve seen her in something where she’s allowed to be warm, charming, and likable. With more performances like this one, she might have a chance at a real career.
Being non-woke doesn’t mean No Way Home has nothing to say. Quite the opposite. The difference, though, is that the story speaks to us, all of us, in the way art is supposed to speak. The themes are universal, the characters are relatable, the emotions real, and the filmmaker’s desire to put on a show infectious…
Watch the box office on this one. And then watch the entertainment media squirm to explain why, in the age of the Omicron variant, the non-woke No Way Home will probably make more money in one week than the worketard Black Widow and woketard Eternals did during their entire run. Hell, No Way Home will probably make more money on its opening night — one night — than the woketard West Side Story will throughout its entire run.
All this talk about how moviegoing is dead simply isn’t true. Americans want to fall in love with the movies again. We want to laugh and cheer with each other again. The shared experience of a movie theater is irreplaceable. We are dying to return to the movies, but not if it means being insulted and shamed, or creeped out by sexual deviancy, or worried about having to explain to our children why two hairy guys just exchanged body fluids.
You want our business? Stop with the propaganda. Return to making art. If you don’t, you will have killed the greatest artistic medium in the history of mankind: the moving picture.