Not ‘Nuff Said
Now, I’m trying not to lose faith in Agents Of S.H.I.E.L.D., based on the fact that it’s…well, not strictly Joss Whedon, but still A Whedon, and not to be dismissed. And, Firefly aside, Whedon shows don’t tend to arrive fully-formed. There’s a process of setting up, of building a world, before things kick in. Remember that first season of Angel, that played like a cable X-Files knockoff before things got going? Or how Dollhouse rewarded our faith for sticking with it during those tame, avoiding-the-squick-factor early episodes?
Any minute now, I tell myself. The Big Bad will be revealed, there’ll be the equivalent of the Guy-with-the-terrible-Irish-accent getting killed on Angel, and Agents Of S.H.I.E.L.D. will start delivering that fix of tasty Marvel I crave.
I talk sometimes about Marvel or DC as a substance of its own; You want this Marvel? I got that sweet, sweet Marvel you need! The Big Two universes each amount to something more than the sum of its publishing line. There’s a certain vibe to each, Marvel freewheeling and intense, DC epic in scope and slightly ridiculous, that becomes an experience to be sought. Sorry to fellate Arrow yet again, but that show is loaded with DC goodness, namechecking Nanda Parbat, inexplicably repeated use of the number 52, and here, have Barry Allen’s iconic origin as The Flash. I’m sorry, sir, Batman is off the menu tonight, but can I interest you in Deathstroke the Terminator and Solomon Grundy?