Hello, absentee followers and non-existent aficionados. I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack. I've doffed my curmudgeonly resentment because the light of the Whedonverse has, once again, restored my faith in Hollywood's storytelling capacity.
Most of the movie-going planet has already seen the Avengers, bought a T-shirt, and returned to their respective sweaty-male-scented caverns. I saw it for the first time, admittedly with some reluctance, given that even the most devoted of geek-geniuses have succumbed to the withering aura of marketers and monetizing producers, and then betrayed yours truly.
But this time I found myself so enthralled, so stirred by the fantastic whoosh of it all, that I wooted. That is, woot, as in a shout, a yawp, a huzzah, etc. Of course, I had only the scarred and ragged vestiges of a throat so it sounded like the wheezing crack of pubescence, but yes, there was wootage.
At one point I even shouted (internally) my love for Joss Whedon. No other knows better how to make the funny moments funny, the supernal moments supernal, and the tragic moments as heart wrenching as they should be. Oh, and snappy dialogue. He does that.
Thank you, Mr. Whedon, for joining them without getting beaten. Keep 'em coming.