Less spandex, more spacesuits
In American magazine publishing there is the distinction between the pulps and the slicks, the latter (obviously) being more aspirational. Similarly, in post-war Britain, children's comic papers were also printed with market-appropriate awareness. When wartime strictures like paper rationing finally eased, better quality stock and production processes became available for the upper end of the market and full colour printing again became possible to enliven the lower end.
I believe there was significant difference between the US and UK market practices for comic paper (comic book) publication, certainly during my childhood. Forgive any errors, but as I understand the business as it was in the States, comic books published by companies like Timely/Marvel, National/DC, Tower, Dell etc were often monthly or even bi-monthly titles, and content was dedicated by theme, be it romance, pseudo-historical adventure, westerns, science fiction, the inevitable superheroes or humour. Title characters were sometimes supported by a second feature. Covers were glossy and printed by letterpress in full colour. Interior pages were pulp, also usually printed in full colour by letterpress. The artistic process involved strict designation of task to a writer, penciller, inker, letterer, and tint specifier (using a limited palette of four-colour combinations). Creative personnel were not individually credited until Marvel did so in the 1960s, after which others followed suit.
The pattern in Britain was somewhat different. Comics publication in the UK had much to do with newspaper publishers putting spare press capacity to profitable use. Unlike American comics, most were weekly anthology titles containing a variety of stories/characters, being a mix of humour and adventure subjects, some told in text (a declining trend), some in sequential artwork, which might be interspersed with jokes, letters, editorial and sometimes puzzles, the latter especially in younger titles. This scattergun approach was later dropped in favour of more thematically coherent publications towards the end of my comic reading days. For example (and though it post-dates my own immersion in the medium) the dystopian SF of the successful 2000AD comic—though they still contained multiple features. So, while titles might mainly be either adventure-led or humour-led, one or two of the alternate type of feature would be included to leaven each issue. Usually, each feature would be allocated a single page, or a double-page spread, with adventure features consisting of an instalment in a continuing serial with cliff-hangers.
I have mostly forgotten the pre-ISO, imperial dimensions that were in use at the time, but titles were often of a size approximating 10" x 12", though some were produced to a larger tabloid format (mostly humour-led titles), or even as substantial booklets of 68 pages at 7" x 5½" that contained a single feature (mostly adventure-led titles which were referred to as "picture libraries"). Most were printed onto pulp or newsprint via letterpress, always with full colour covers. Centre spreads might also be full colour, but more often they were not, or the pagination might allow a second colour overlay (usually red) on some interior spreads, especially in the humour-led titles of publisher DC Thompson—but more often they were not. Only the perfect bound, booklet-style publications would have been anything other than self-covered, the picture libraries benefiting from full-colour, letterpress printing onto a coated stock. Interior artwork was from line artwork, sometimes with a spot colour and occasionally in single colour line and tone.
The subject matter for humorous features included the usual anthropomorphic animals, amiable dimwits, mismatched or comically antagonistic pairings, mischievous children (singly or in groups), spoofs of well-known historical or literary characters, and exotic characters misplaced in mundane surroundings (or vice versa). Increasingly, licensed characters or properties from TV broadcasting were included.
In both humour and adventure features, the protagonists might be children, presumably to encourage audience identification (though it was a ploy that always alienated this reader when young, more so when the publishers made the children a boy and a girl in an attempt to broaden appeal to include female readership). Pets and school environments were commonplace (something else that was unlikely to compel my juvenile interest). Anti-Nazi wartime derring-do was kind of okay but didn't really float my boat, either, though it obviously remained extremely popular. Worst of all were the mostly inescapable features based on sporting endeavour. As soldiering and sport were often the more easily identified means of escape from drudgery or poverty for the working classes, it's easy to see which end of the social scale these comics were generally aimed at, though academia-set stories often paradoxically featured an environment that suggested public schools (ie private schools), a leftover from comics of an earlier age, perhaps (notably The Magnet and its tales of Billy Bunter), or a device to provide a greater freedom of activity for the protagonists. That, or the more authentic setting of a secondary modern school would have brought real-life terror too close to home! Another narrative device used to escape from mundane circumstances was via the bequest of a recently deceased but distant relative (or other potential gain) that came with strings attached, said strings providing the impetus for the feature's plot.
These comics were, for the most part, rooted in (exaggerated) real-world environments where ordinary Joes made good against the odds. I read some of them and enjoyed some of them, but they were not where my heart lay. The space age was probably the biggest influence on my imagination at the time and was certainly the biggest influence on my choice of reading material. I wanted the future, here and now. I wanted, too, to learn about subjects I found fascinating, like history and science. These things were not catered for in The Beano, nor in The Hotspur, or most other letterpress comics.
Which thought brings us to the other type of British comic, often identifiable by its superior production, eg printing by the gravure/intaglio process from fully painted colour artwork.
Its inception predates my own existence, so I can't say whether it was the first of its kind using such production methods, but The Eagle, launched in 1950, was the standard bearer for ephemeral yet aspirational juvenile reading. In fact, it was founded by an Anglican vicar, Marcus Morris, who had recognised the colourful attraction of American comics to British children compared to the then largely monochrome content of the home-grown product but, less impressed by the sometimes overly sensational content of the American titles, he decided to fill the gap in the market by providing a non-preachy but ethically based, vibrant, story paper. It was immediately and immensely popular despite its fairly heavy cover price, the fully painted artwork for its covers (and some other interior spreads) illuminating the lives of its colour-starved young readership (though black-and-white line-and-tone was used for the remaining pages). It was, once again, an anthology title, with a mix of humour and adventure, many of its characters becoming, at least for a generation, household names. One of them, the space-age cover star, was Dan Dare, originated, written, drawn and otherwise art-directed by Frank Hampson, who eventually built up a studio of talented artists to help him produce the feature. It's still fondly remembered and there is the occasional misguided attempt at resurrecting the character for a modern readership, usually discarding the essential traits of the original or reducing them to parody. The other notable innovation in The Eagle was the inclusion of features explaining modern technology, often with the help of beautifully painted, highly detailed cutaway illustrations.
Though by the height of my comic buying The Eagle seemed to be a little dated, it was, never-the-less, a template for other titles also relatively expensively produced, which similarly included features on nature, history, exploration, science, technology, astronomy, the space race etc, as well as SF- or pseudo-historically-based comic features that appealed to me (often using the cream of British illustrative talent—though as in the USA, artists were not usually credited [until the early 1970s in the title Countdown]). Some examples were more intentionally educational than others, some more inclined to entertainment, but these titles appealed more to me than stories about a kid with the arse out of his trousers who stuns the country with his precocious soccer-playing abilities.
Then, of course there were the American comics. Originally shipped to the UK as ballast rather than as a saleable commodity, they became increasingly popular, receiving a bump (as the US market also did) from the 1966 broadcast of the Batman TV show. Supply was not dependable, however, so any youngster keen on acquiring a particular title would inevitably find gaps in their collection. My memory is that titles outside of the superhero theme were not so favoured by British kids, but those of that type were so popular that British comics reprinting them under license in their pages, even in black and white, were successful. Fleetway, a part of publishers IPC, launched five titles in the mid-1960s (letterpress on newsprint, full colour outer cover, single colour interior): Wham! Pow! Smash! Terrific! and Fantastic! Actually, the latter title was printed on a much better uncoated stock and was consequently significantly more expensive than its stablemates. But for one feature it consisted entirely of Marvel reprints. The others reprinted two US features each amongst the usual miscellany of home-grown humour and adventure, again mostly from Marvel. The exception was Smash! which reprinted one Marvel property as well as the syndicated Batman newspaper strip, ganged up to fill a double-page spread. Over time, as the British comic market contracted and was additionally beset by industrial strife, the less successful of these so-called "Power Comics" were absorbed into the more successful titles until, by 1969, only Smash! remained and that, by the following year, had been relaunched sans American content. A few years later—but after I had left comic buying behind—Marvel established a British publishing company to continue selling reprints (as well as country-specific original material).
Another British publisher jumping on the bandwagon of US reprints was Alan Class and his AC imprint. In various perfect bound, digest-sized titles like Creepy Worlds and Uncanny Tales, Class reprinted not only Marvel content, but also that of less well-known and significantly less popular American publishers like Tower and ACG. Each issue would contain several stories, while printing was of poor quality in single colour line on pulp, with a glossy, full colour cover derived from the cover of the US original for one of the republished stories within. The content was rarely from a superhero title and, even if it was, it would consist of a single episode, which was fine if it was a standalone story: if it was a part of a longer arc it might remain an unconnected island, the rest of the story possibly never to be seen.
The comics market in the UK is now not so child-focused as it once was. There are few titles—and in which there is significant churn—many of which are associated with properties from television, and those that aren't are still often reprints of American superhero titles (production values for the latter are better than for the former). They are all A4 in format and printed by offset lithography (there is no gravure printing in Britain anymore: art books so printed are produced in Italy or, more recently, China. One of the last such printers in Britain was Sun here in Watford, but they are now long gone). The superhero comics seem to be for older enthusiasts, and the picture library format remains another nostalgic niche market, while the stuff for kids is insubstantial and always requires an attached bribe in the form of a cheap plastic "free gift". It wouldn't surprise me if the only remaining "traditional" kids' title was The Beano, though circulation cannot be all that great, even for that stalwart. Comics simply aren't of interest to the Xbox/Playstation generation.
Traditionally, until fairly recent years, we haven't really done "superheroes" here in Britain so much as "jolly-super heroes".
I guess hero-worship in this country started centuries ago with the retelling of assorted warlords' brutal exploits in the oral tradition, which gradually coalesced into the earliest written narratives. Many, notably the proto-Arthurian legends, had native subject matter while a hero like Beowulf, though his legend is written in Old English verse, is rooted in Nordic culture. Popular heroes like King Arthur were repeatedly taken up through time, their stories embellished to reflect then-current sensibilities, ideals, and political necessities (a bit like DC's Batman is today!).
That additional romance afforded by a historical setting persisted even in later adventures penned by authors like Walter Scott (Ivanhoe; Redgauntlet) and Robert Louis Stevenson (Black Arrow; Kidnapped).
Pride in Empire asserted itself over time, and literary heroes became colonialists and patriots, obtaining bounty or fame for queen (or king) and country, or setting a resolute collective jaw against the dastardly foreigner. This can be found in the works of H Rider Haggard (King Solomon's Mines), John Buchan (The 39 Steps), and Erskine Childers (The Riddle of the Sands)—though the latter author was known to have Irish Republican sympathies. Less sophisticated efforts could be additionally found in WE Johns' Biggles books, about a fictitious WWI Royal Air Force pilot. An early British comic, The Boy's Own Paper, published from 1878, was particularly notable for its pro-colonial attitude, as Wikipedia notes: "[The] paper promoted the British Empire as the zenith of civilisation".
Chauvinism aside, from the 19th Century, British fictional heroics seemed to be dominated by the mythology of an ordinary chap winning through by dint of ingenuity, stoicism, the occasional sock on the jaw and—more than anything else—"pluck". These ideas remained entrenched until well after halfway through the 20th Century. That said, brains were clearly the ultimate weapon of choice in some cases, notably Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes stories.
By the time I was reading comics in the 1960s, it was the sporting or military application of British pluck and determination that were greatly favoured in the stories at one end of the comics market (eg Roy of the Rovers, and Forward from the Back Streets, et al in the first instance, and Sergeant Rock of the SAS, and Paddy Payne, Fighter Ace, etc in the second). That's not to say there weren't other styles of hero in comics: traditional adventurers in the Haggard/Buchan style could be found in features such as The Thirteen Tasks of Simon Test or Kelly's Eye (though there was often also an additional supernatural element to proceedings), while Victorian escapologist, Janus Stark, exemplified the attraction of a mysterious and ethically ambivalent character.
As with characters from early 20th Century popular literature like Leslie Charteris' Simon Templar (The Saint) or Sax Rohmer's Dr Fu Manchu, we had roguish, convention-flouting adventurers and diabolical masterminds so, even in the absence of superheroes as they are popularly recognised, almost-villains and super-villains were fairly common (very notably arch-criminal The Spider [not to be confused with the DC character of the same name], a British feature actually written by Jerry Siegel, co-creator of Superman). None of these characters was extravagantly costumed, at least not in the colourful, carnival leotards of American comic superheroes. Mysterious psychic investigators might wear a dramatic dark cloak, escapologists and super-criminals might wear a dark leotard, but the costumes of circus performers didn't usually feature... Unless the character was a circus performer, of course.
The Second World War consolidated the concept of the British hero as a cheerful, optimistic, courageous fellow who'd rather use brain than brawn, but would roll his sleeves up for a bout of fisticuffs when necessary (Marquess of Queensbury rules, of course), whether he be fighter pilot, footballer, or gentleman adventurer. Or astronaut. Frank Hampson's Dan Dare ("Pilot of the Future") was very much of this breed.
Dare fitted the mould of a British officer, complete with a personal servant—such as were allocated to officers in the services (known as a batman, funnily enough)—in the shape of Spaceman First Class Albert Digby, an unsophisticated but capable and loyal working-class northerner (precisely what working class northerners were expected to be at the time). Inescapably, this feels like an illustration of the expected reader demographic. The black-and-white, pulp, letterpress comics tended to feature NCOs as heroes, the colour, coated, gravure comics featured officers (and their batmen)!
Given that comic readership—even in the 1950s and 1960s, when popularity was probably at its height—didn't occupy all that many years of a youngster's life (leaving school and entering the adult world of work in the 1950s was at age 15 for most), Hampson was pretty bold in his plotting, at one time writing three consecutive, linked Dan Dare stories that appeared in weekly instalments over about two-and-a-half years. Other stories of about a year's duration were not uncommon for the feature.
Dan's success as the leading character in Eagle predictably brought a slew of imitators in other comic papers as the space-age took off. Swift Morgan, Jet Morgan, Jet-Ace Logan, Space Ace, Space Kingley, Rick Random, Captain Condor, Brett Million (in a sophisticated feature, The Angry Planet, drawn by the great Frank Bellamy and allegedly written by SF author Michael Moorcock), Jeff Hawke, and many others followed in comics, annuals, and newspaper strips. Hawke, appearing as a newspaper strip, was also (understandably) a sophisticated take on alien life and human interaction with it. I believe it was also syndicated in the US, a return compliment for the ages-old licensing in Britain of Buck Rogers, Flash Gordon, et al from the other side of the pond.
The space-age coincided with the rise in television to being the ubiquitous medium, so it was inevitable that the first was reflected in the output of the second, and unsurprising that such output was consequently transcribed to the printed ephemera of comics. In Britain this might have started with the popular pre-TV 1950s radio feature, Journey into Space (featuring the above-named Jet Morgan). It certainly continued with the entire SF oeuvre of TV producer Gerry Anderson in comics from his own publishing company. With production values to rival Eagle, his titles used the services of fabulous artists like Frank Bellamy, Mike Noble, Ron Embleton and Ron Turner to generate more dynamic narratives than were possible for most of Anderson's puppet-driven TV output. Needless to say, Britain's favourite science fantasy property, Doctor Who (and related alien adversaries) were quick to find their way into the pages of comics, too, as (later) did TV's Timeslip, The Tomorrow People and Sapphire and Steel.
Under license from the States were Star Trek (appearing in British print before its original broadcast in the country, and drawn by Harry Lindfield and Mike Noble amongst others over the course of the feature's run), and Irwin Allen properties Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea and Land of the Giants (I have to confess a deep childhood dislike of Allen's TV shows, which seemed to be populated by the most humourless and rigid characters). Star Trek was also available in collections of American Gold Key reprints in British annuals, as was The Outer Limits and possibly yet more properties that I can no longer recall. In Britain, "annuals" were books published for the Christmas market containing matter mainly of interest to children, often based on TV properties or the content of weekly comics. Almost always they were case-bound and were, somewhat oddly, dated for the following year (so the 1966-dated Lion annual, for example, would be published in 1965, probably about September, in time for that year's Christmas stockings). Such things were a staple in our household in the 1960s.
The last space opera appearing in any comic that I read was the titular feature in the initially-gravure-printed Countdown, an SF-based anthology title. Produced in full colour from fabulous and fully painted artwork by John Burns, it was a visual treat (especially since the appearance of many hardware designs in the feature were licensed from MGM's 2001: A Space Odyssey). Changing public taste and the economic realities of British comics publishing being what they were, the publication eventually changed its name to the less-SF-orientated TV Action, while production methods were cheapened by a move to offset lithographic printing on uncoated stock (though the Countdown feature itself remained for some time after the unfortunate change, still painted in colour by Burns). That was the end of my comic buying. Truth to tell, I was already too old for such things anyway, but had been swayed when the comic first hit the news-stands by the original glossy production, vibrant artwork by fine artists, nostalgia for my departing youth and the always-attractive science features (including particularly good photographic coverage of the later Apollo missions).
None of which is to say that there were no home-grown superheroes in the American style featured in British comics. They just weren't as plentiful, nor (so far as I could tell) so generally successful as other types of hero in the publications of my youth.
An early incarnation of a Brit-originated superhero was Mick Anglo's Wonderman in the late 1940s, but the writer/artist became best known for his reinvention of Marvelman. A British publisher had legitimately and successfully reprinted stories from the American company Fawcett, including their Marvelman property, but when National/DC forced Fawcett to drop the character there was nothing left to print in what had been one of the Brit publisher's most successful titles. Anglo stepped into the breach with a similarly named and similarly talented hero, to no legal repercussions.
There were others, particularly during the period of the so-called American Golden Age, but they seem not to have had much in the way of longevity and comics were still more usually filled with ordinary chaps with pluck and plenty of moral fibre in their diet.
Scottish publisher, DC Thompson, famed for their humour comics, also published adventure titles. However, they chose their flagship (predominantly) humour title, The Beano, in which to introduce their adolescent superhero Billy the Cat in 1967. Drawn in single colour line with fine draughtsmanship (but in a traditionally British comic style) by David Sutherland, the exaggerated dynamics of American superhero illustration were absent, as they tended to be in many Brit attempts at rendering spandex-clad heroism (though the feature was—and may yet remain—popular).
IPC, having banished US reprints from their "Power Comics" survivor Smash! in 1970, were left in no doubt that they had excised features much enjoyed and missed by their readership. The response was to create their own superhero, Tri-Man (guess how many super powers he possessed?). Again, illustrative style (by Argentine artist Francisco Solano López, working from Spain) sat somewhat uncomfortably with the subject matter. It didn't satisfy the Marvel-starved readers and the feature was not successful. Let's be honest, superheroes need not only an extremely dynamic and somewhat hard-edged illustrative style, but a dramatic urban environment in which to operate. Aside from London, no British city—real or imagined—could have the glamour or grit of a New York or Gotham City. We're just too provincial.
London was the location of the cringeworthily named Johnny Future. Well-drawn by Luis Bermejo, another artist working from Spain (a common choice by publishers to reduce costs of production), the character began life as a kind of a naturally occurring knock-off of The Incredible Hulk, titled The Missing Link. Later made over by exposure to the inevitable excessive dose of radiation, Linky became polysyllabic in speech and less stocky of build, swapping his tattered strides for a cloak and spandex, and gaining his embarrassing new appellation. Since the feature appeared in "Power Comic" Fantastic!—an early casualty of the publisher's rationalisation of titles—Johnny's heroic exploits again didn't last long.
In such ways were Brits introduced to the phenomenon of superheroes, and they learned to love them... But principally it seemed that, while American superheroes were popular in Britain, mimicry was generally far less successful.
As ever, and as far as the American product was concerned, I was primarily captivated by the work of the artists (though Marvel's tone of voice and more sophisticated approach to character positively distinguished their titles from DC or other competition). I revere still the work of John Buscema, Steve Ditko, Gene Colan, Neal Adams, and numerous others. Of course, there is now traffic in British talent to American shores to illustrate such publications, but an early migrant was Barry (Windsor-)Smith in the 1960s, who I remember working on The Avengers title.
Further exposure was inevitable for me when my son later became interested in comics as a boy. So, being a sucker for illustrative art, I then became acquainted with more recent artists, Tim Sale being an admirable example.
There are superhero- and comics-based movies that I've enjoyed, but for me, their principal fault is a general tendency toward strict formula, and it's far too easy for them to become a bore. Even when narratively well set-up, they are frequently let down by a dull and protracted "climactic" fight. The extended combat in Superman II is one of the most egregious examples, not least because of the unmissable product placement of the Marlboro truck that's perpetually in shot as it gets trashed in the punch-up's progress.
I admire the intelligence behind the Marvel strategy of building their series of films, but most individual entries in the run (that I've seen) I've found uninteresting. I thought very well of both Iron Man and Iron Man II, owing much to Robert Downey Jr's performance. That I remember nothing about the third entry in that series says much. Strangely, I did quite enjoy Avengers Assemble in a relatively undemanding, popcorn-munching kind of way. I have not troubled to see all its successors, and in those I have seen I could find no interest (especially Age of Ultron, which made me want to bash my head on a rock in the hope of making it stop or go away). For home viewing, Avengers-based WandaVision piqued my curiosity: it seems oddball enough to be interesting, and Doom Patrol appealed for similar reasons. I have yet to see either as we're not subscribed to either Disney's or HBO's TV channels.
My son suggested that I watch Netflix's Daredevil, knowing that I like an involved and edgy crime drama better than pure superhero fare. The first season set up quite well, but the second was dull, insufficiently grounded in a believable reality, and was mired in uninteresting subplots that were intended to establish themes and characters for spin-off properties. I became bored and stopped watching it, turning directly to the succeeding third season, which was easily the best of the three (if one can tolerate strong screen violence). The visual device of overlaying everything with a sickly yellow cast was unnecessary and unattractive, though.
I very much admire Chris Nolan's Batman films. Christian Bale made a good job of his role(s) (Ben Affleck was exceptionally well-cast in a poor movie when his turn came, later). Heath Ledger steals the second picture with his performance, but all the major players are good. I liked the balancing of the three flawed characters of Wayne, Dent and Joker. It's my favourite of Nolan's three superhero pictures. The biggest bugbear arises if I consider the illogical and unnecessary gaffes made by Bale's character in the first two movies: he simply doesn't need to sacrifice himself as he does, and even if the narrative needed to make him a martyr, it should have been for more logical reasons and by more convincing means than those offered. It remains, none-the-less, a good triad of films.
I had high hopes for Gotham and found much to celebrate in the earlier part of its run. Especially praiseworthy were the performances of Robin Lord Taylor, and Jada Pinkett Smith. I thought Cory Michael Smith played his role with equal aplomb, while Carol Kane was fun as Penguin's mother. JPS was wasted to a certain degree, and I felt—in general—the series' female characters were woefully served, most not aspiring to the possession of more than a single dimension in their writing or performance. Sean Pertwee made a great Alfred but playing second fiddle to the obnoxious young Bruce Wayne should have resulted in such a capable and intelligent character (and actor) strangling him. Most trying was the production's relentless teasing of who would be the Joker. He may be the property's second most important character in terms of fan appreciation, but who could give a fig which of the conveyor of equally hysterical, psychopathic misfits actually turned out to be the chosen one? Effectively they all were, and when everyone's the arch-villain, no-one is: it diminishes the status.
Speaking of Batman, I retain affection for the 1960s film, which is odd because—even as a child—the TV series made me squirm with embarrassment from the first episode. I don't know why, but the campery and the daftness seem to work in a discrete picture. Another good movie for families is the pure adventurous fun of The Rocketeer: admirably entertaining, establishing just the right atmosphere and character for the subject and the period depicted.
At the other end of the spectrum, Sin City is a visually stunning picture that survives the employment of three directors on the piece. Paradoxically visually slick while thematically gritty, it's a work to admire rather than like. Tonally dark and unafraid to portray a deeply unpleasant side of life, it's very characteristic of Frank Miller's personality. I'd rate it quite highly but for the apparent misogyny.
Another series of somewhat eccentric superhero fare is M Night Shyamalan's trilogy of Unbreakable, Split and Glass. The director often gets stick for being uneven in the quality of his work, and it's difficult to disagree with that criticism—The Sixth Sense was deserving of all plaudits while later works too often missed the mark—but I have respect for his take on the out-of-the-ordinary ordinariness of his superhero. Some of it doesn't make a lick of sense (how could anyone not remember whether they'd ever been ill in their lives?), but it's an interesting slant on a well-known genre and it's refreshing to see a slower build of intensity. It appeals to my British appreciation of the understated: the hero dealing with business on a human scale rather than saving the planet from imminent cataclysm. The picture's conclusion seems rushed and messy, though, as if they suddenly ran out of money and had to cobble together an ending from what was already in the can. Unbreakable is also notable (to me) for being one of a small clutch of movies that greatly improved my opinion of Bruce Willis, the others being (in apparently ascending numerical order!) The Fifth Element, The Sixth Sense and, especially, Twelve Monkeys.
Rushing to the end of the trilogy, Glass is very disappointing, and I don't think it's a notable addition to anyone's CV. I suppose, having excited audiences by pulling the second picture, Split, into the world of Unbreakable, they were keen to see a conclusion that drew together all the possible narrative and character strands from the earlier works. But it lacks... Nearly everything.
The second of the three, Split, appears at first to be an increasingly tense standalone thriller with a strong potential for horror. I can think of few films that have such dramatic intensity. James McAvoy's performance is remarkable in the varied layers of different personalities to which his character is prey. But I found it a genuine surprise when the indication of supernormal physical ability, as might be found in a superhero movie, eventually emerged. Split doesn't score all that highly over at IMDB but I thought it very impressive.